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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMEBICA. 
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Post-[aureate Idyls 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



/ 



OSCAR FAY ADAMS 

AUTHOR OF "a brief HANDBOOK OF ENGLISH AUTHORS," "a 
HANDBOOK OF AMERICAN AUTHORS," AND EDITOR OF 
"through the year with THE POETS " 



i^^ 




BOSTON 
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 

32 Franklin Street 



\ 






Copyright, 1886, by 
LOTHROP AND COMPANY. 



Electrotypkd 
By C. J. Peters & Son, Boston. 



TRUE POET AND LOYAL FRIEND. 



"IVith reed and lyre" you wake the echoes sweet 
That float and linger in the halls of song. 
I follow after but with lagging feet. 
And do but stammer ivhile your voice is strong. 



Content! 



POST-LAUREATE IDYLS. 



PAGE 



The Rape of the Tarts 9 

At the Palace of King Lot 17 

Sir Evergreen 25 

Thomas and Vivien 35 

The Vision of Sir Lamoracke 44 

The Return from the Quest 52 

The Maid's Alarm 58 

The Water Carriers 64 

The Passing of the Sages y^ 

CONSTANTIUS AND HELENA 8l 

A TALE OF TUSCANY. 
A Tale of Tuscany 91 

THE GOLDEN LOTUS, 
The Legend of the Golden Lotus 127 

LYRICS, ETC. 

The Sweet South- Wind 135 

On the Labrador Coast 138 

What's the Sweetest News in Spring ? . . . . 140 

S 



6 Contents. 

Francesca and Paolo 142 

Where are the Pipes of Pan? 143 

Song 145 

To A Friend who delays to Write 146 

A Valentine 147 

Midsummer Passes 149 

Fair Friendship Raised His Placid Mask. . . 150 

An Easter Grief 151 

Unto Late Autumntide 152 

With a Prayer-Book 153 

On Truro Sands 154 

Beaten 155 

Reconciliation 159 

Indifference 160 

Easter-Friday, 1883 161 

To James Russell Lowell 162 

To One Who Has Suffered Much 163 

To MODJESKA AS RoSALlND 164 

To MODJESKA AS JULIA OF VeRONA 165 

High-Water Mark i66 



Post-Caurcatc Byb. 



O why in tripping rhyjnes relate 
The legejids of our nursery days? 

Arthurian epics, 7nore sedate^ 

Suit better with our modern ways. 



POST-LAUREATE IDYLS, 



THE RAPE OF THE TARTS. 

ARGUMENT. 

The Queen of Hearts, 
She made some tarts 

All on a sum})ier''s day ; 
The Knave of Hearts, 
He stole those tarts 

A nd carried them away / 
The Que e 71 of Hearts, 
Site missed those tarts 

A 7td grieved for them full sore J 
The Knave of Hearts 
Broicght back those tarts, 

And vow'd lte''d steal no more i 

TSOLT, the Cornish Queen, in those dark days 

When Mark, her unlov'd lord, had brought her back 
From woodland lodge where Tristram bode with her 
The space of one revolving moon, but now 
Was past to Brittany, where the white hands 
Of one with name like hers, Isolt, had snar'd 
Him with their gleam, so changeful-hearted he, 
Fell into bitter musings lasting long. 
And vexed thereby the sullen Mark, who growl'd 
His anger from behind his tangled beard, 

9 



lO The Rape of the Tarts. 

The more resentful that she took no heed. 
So months went by, until at last there dawn'd 
A summer morn on wave-washt Cornwall fair 
And sweet as odorous white lilies are, 
And sweet indeed to Queen Isolt, who lay 
With silken broider'd hangings round her bed 
Facing the morn. Far off the ripple broke 
Upon the beach unheard, but flasht in air 
Its silver, and in palace court the birds 
Of morning sang. Then to herself the Queen : 

" Lo, absent Tristram is not all in all 

To me, Mark's wife. There yet abides in life 

Something of worth, tho' Tristram be not here.'* 

The saying pleas'd her, and she turn'd it o'er. 

" Something of worth, tho' Tristram be not here." 

Then rising from the couch which Mark had left 

Ere rose the sun from out the Cornish sea. 

She call'd her waiting maidens to their task, 

And paus'd before two gowns the damsels brought, 

As doubtful how she should array herself. 

One of green samite, o'er which wander'd strings 

Of gleaming pearls, in mazy pattern set. 

So that the eye wearied to follow, held 

Her but such space while one with even breath 

Might count a dozen ; then her glance upon 



Tke Rape of the Tarts. ii 

The other fell, a silken robe of blue 

Shot thro' and thro' with shimmering silver lights. 

And this her choice at length for that day's wear, 

Not unforgetful how Sir Tristram lov'd 

To see her in it; and, when her waiting maids 

Had rob'd her, slowly mov'd she down the stair, 

And, after morning hunger stay'd, she past 

To where the palace cooks and scullions bode, 

In kitchen vast, whence royal dainties came. 

All sweetness seem'd her face, and music seem'd 

Her voice, when she entreated one to bring 

His cook's white apron for her royal use, 

And when her maids had clad her in it, none 

Could think her other than a gracious Queen, 

Since nothing of her royal grace was hid. 

So following her fancy's lead, she bade 

The miCn about her bring the wheaten meal 

And all the kitchen tools she glibly nam'd, 

And place before her on a cross-legg'd stand 

Of smoke-gloom'd oak ; and then her round white arms 

She plung'd up to the elbows in the meal, 

Her red lips murm'ring, 

" It will serve." 

Then, while 
The cooks and scullions stood with hands on hips 
And mouths agape to watch, she deftly mov'd 
About her task, and not with awkwardness, 



12 The Rape of the Tarts. 

As one unus'd to kitchen toil or cares, 

But with all grace, such grace as won all hearts, 

And, ere they knew her purpose, saw before 

Their eyes row after row of pastry moulds, 

As shapely as the hands that made, and these 

The Queen herself in heated oven placed, 

And, while these brown'd in torrid darkness, sang. 

For sweetly could Isolt of Ireland sing: 

" Ay, ay, O ay, — the winds that fan the fire ! 

Fair tarts in prospect, tarts before me here ! 
Ay, ay, O ay, — and tarts were my desire, 

And one was not enough, and one was dear : 
Ay, ay, O ay, — the winds that move so fast ! 

And one was far, and one tart was nigher, 
And one will never bake, and one will last. 

Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that fan the fire ! " 

Far up among the oaken rafters rang 
Her voice, and clear as is the tinkling fall 
Of water over rocks that chafe its course, 
And all within the kitchen felt such stir 
Within the blood as when the joyous wire 
Sweet summer music makes along the veins. 
Then one, to whom she signal'd when the strain 
Was ended, open threw the oven doors, 
And drew from warm concealment into light 



The Rape of the Tarts. 13 

The tarts and bore them to Isolt, who straight 

Within the cup-Hke hollow of the tarts 

One after other placed with golden spoon, 

On which were graven deep the Cornish arms, 

The lucent jellies quivering like leaf 

Of aspen when all else is still, and sound 

And other motion dead within the wood. 

This done she bade the cooks have careful charge 

Of these, her tarts, till she should send, then past — • 

Her cook's white apron doft — upward to halls 

Befitting her fair presence more, and, sleep 

And summer both at once assailing, slept. 

Now on the selfsame morning fair Etarre, 
Awaking with Sir Pelleas's sword across 
Her throat and Gawain's, felt her fancy turn 
To him who might have slain her, sleeping, yet 
Forbore because of former love, and said 
To him who lay beside her, false Gawain, 
*' Go hence, and see me nevermore ! " The Prince, 
Who deem'd he knew all women's changeful ways, 
Laught lightly, and essayed to kiss, as oft 
Before, the warm white hollow of her throat. 
But she, recoiling, flasht such sudden wrath 
He, too, drew back, and slowly rose and heard 
From lips grown stern, from lips his own had prest, 
The sentence, " Go ! and see me never more." 



14 The Rape of the Tarts. 

Then he, much marveling on women's ways, 
Obey'd, and went with slow, reluctant feet 
Without, and mounted horse, and past across 
The courtyard and thro' postern portal, past 
Down garden slopes with musky breathings fill'd, 
To where the gates, wide open, led to fields 
And far beyond them forest shades. Thro' these 
He went and wander'd on to where the walls 
Of Mark's great palace rose across his view. 
Then, for the summer noon was hot, he drew 
His rein beneath a giant oak that made 
A welcome shadow near the gate, and mus'd 
Yet more on changeful women's ways till came 
On vagrant breeze a whiff of pastry thence 
And woke a sudden hunger in his breast. 

Meanwhile in hall Isolt of Ireland slept, 
And slumb'rous summer silence crept o'er all 
The serving men and maids, till one whose care 
Had been the tarts to watch, a lad in years 
But few and wits as scant as years, awak'd 
From dream unquiet, and awaking, saw 
The Prince Gawain through kitchen gliding soft, 
Bearing the great, tart-laden dish. Whereat 
The lad rose, terror stricken, shrieking loud, 
"The tarts." Again, and like a descant, "Gone! 
The tarts." 



The Rape of the Tarts. 1 5 

Loud shrill'd the cry thro'out the court, 
And each took up the words till rang from wall 
To wall the mournful echo : 

"Gone, the tarts!" 
Fast swell'd the cry and louder with each voice 
That wail'd the theft until the Queen awak'd 
And hearing what had happ'd felt her heart sink 
And visions toothsome of the well-bak'd tarts 
For royal supper fade to naught, and sat 
To tears abandon'd and to grief a prey. 

But false Gawain to saddle leaping, tarts 
In dish upborne, saw all the rabble rout 
Of palace kitchen fast behind pursue, 
And one in saddle follow'd while the rest 
The shrill cry echo'd, " O, the tarts ! the tarts ! " 
Forth from the gates the chase was had until 
The steed of Prince Gawain stumbl'd and threw 
Him, bearing still the unspill'd tarts, upon 
A grassy bank where those who follow'd found 
And brought him, still tart-laden, to Isolt. 

Naught said Gawain to temper his disgrace, 

But let his eye a moment rest upon 

The Queen, an eye that many maidens lov'd, 

Then fall demurely on the toothsome tarts. 

Then she, mov'd somewhat by his grace and glance, 



1 6 The Rape of the Tarts. 

That admiration show'd, forgave the theft, 
And thinking : 

" Lo, a goodly man he seems 
Since Tristram is not by," upon him laid 
But two conditions. First that never should 
He enter kitchen more in act to steal, 
And on his knee, down-dropping at her feet, 
With many oaths the courteous Gawain swore 
To keep from deeds like this thro' all his life ; 
The next that he should stay and eat with her. 
So, nothing loth, the Prince of Courtesy stay'd 
And ate with her the savory, toothsome tarts 
For all an incense-breathing afternoon. 
Till one in haste appear'd when sank the sun, 
Crying, " I crave thy pardon, Queen, thy lord 
Is near." 

Thereat Gawain, warn'd by a look 
Which ray'd from out her heavy-lidded eyes, 
Departed with a word of farewell said, 
And past to his own land, while she prepar'd 
To meet King Mark returning from the chase. 






At the Palace of King Lot, ly 



AT THE PALACE OF KING LOT, 

ARGUMENT. 

j T/te King was in the parlor, counting out his money: 

The Queen was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey : 
\ The Maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes : 

j There came a little Blackbird and snipp'' d off her nose. 



T OT, King of Orkney in the Northern seas, 

Long ere the time when, fighting sword in hand 
'Gainst Arthur in the barons' wars he made 
His name to all true men a byword like 
A thing of scorn, one summer morning sat 
Within the presence chamber all alone. 
For knights and squires that made his island court, 
(A tiny court rul'd by a weakling king,) 
Were absent at the hunting every one. 
Far better had it suited with his mood 
To ride with them in gay companionship 
Than to have stay'd behind. But on that day 
The butcher, baker, chandler, and the host 
That prospered on the waste and riot made 
At court, their bills had brought and, clam'ring, begg'd 
Their dues. 



1 8 At the Palace of King Lot. 

As one who from his window sees 
In early morning blue and cloudless skies, 
And o'er him feels the breezes blowing soft, 
While in his heart is peace, but later finds 
The breezes risen to a gale, and dull. 
Grey clouds fast shutting out the sun and sky 
And in his bosom discontent is lord ; 
So was it with King Lot when from his chair. 
After the morning meal which Bellicent, 
His Queen, had with her maids prepar'd for him — 
Since well she knew what meats would please him 

best — 
He fain had had risen purpose-mov'd to pass 
Without, but, rising, heard a dismal noise 
And saw the door burst open while a throng 
Of angry debtors clos'd him round about. 
Shrill rang their voices 'mong the rafters high 
O'erhead, and scarce the King could headway make 
Against their loud-voic'd clamor, but at length. 
When they had tir'd themselves with shriekings shrill, 
He spake again and all attent they heard. 

" Peace, fools, and leave me time to overlook 
Your bills. This done, to-morrow at this hour 
The seneschal shall see that all are paid." 

This said, he wav'd his hand, and at the sign 



At the Palace of King Lot. 19 

The rout of debtors vanish'd all at once 
And swift, as oftentimes a chatt'ring flock 
Of sparrows disappears before the sound 
Of nearing feet, so quickly drew they off, 
\ Each man communing with himself, the while 
Their sharp heels clatter'd on the flinty floor. 

Then like a wrathful sunshine smil'd King Lot. 

" I go not to the chase to-day, it seems. 

But weary hours must spend instead, forsooth, 

In balancing accounts, since in my court 

Of figures none knows aught, save I, the King." 



At this the sullen Modred, eldest son 

Of Lot, laught softly to himself, — right glad 

That any business kept the kingly eye 

) From him, for full of tricks and craft was he, 
The Artful Dodger of an early day, 

1 And often in an uproar set the court. 

\ 
i,nd now the knights and squires, had gone without 

n'.ilieir King, while he, with anxious face and brow 
Al;l frown, sat 'mongst his money caskets lost 
In calculations deep, and murm'ring low 
Of pounds and shillings, and, at times, of pence, 
And oft, for better aiming at results, 

1 His fingers counting as do boys at school — 



20 At the Palace of King Lot. 

Like them perplext for want of fingers more — 
So past his morning hours away. 

Meanwhile 
Had Bellicent, the Queen, her husband left, 
And to the kitchen gone to oversee 
The maids, for such her careful custom was. 
Right bitter was her tongue when these transgress'd, 
But to obedience was she all as sweet 
As winds from off a perfum'd bank of flowers, — 
And this her maidens knew and strove to please. 
But on her brow this morn there lurkt a frown. 
And in her heart reign'd vague unrest, and why- 
She knew not, yet she held her peace and came 
And went on household quests and would have slill'd 
The gnawing hunger at her heart, and all 
In vain. 

At last she to a cupboard bent 
Her steps, an oaken cupboard built within 
A niche, and wisely for such purpose made. 
And open threw its doors. On oaken shelf 
There gleam'd the glass and silver kept for days i 
Of pomp and show, for Bellicent, the Queen, | 

Had joy in burnisht silver as became | 

Her state, and on her treasure gaz'd she now 
With proper pride, but on the topmost shelf 
Her eyes, blue as the seas that circle round 



At the Palace of King Lot. 21 

Her island realm and dash against its crags, 

Espied a wheaten loaf, and, close beside, 

A jar of amber honey, of some hive 

The luscious spoil. Beholding these the frown 

From off her brow departed, and, therewith, 

The gnawing at her heart, and putting forth 

A slender arm to which a broider'd sleeve, 

All of red samite, clung in shapely fold, 
f She graspt the jar of amber sweets and next 

The wheaten loaf, and, all rejoicing, bore 

Them to a corner window-lit by niche 

Deep sunk and narrow as the zone that bound 

Her robe of scarlet samite at the waist. 

A curtain loosely drawn before kept off 
1 Intrusive eyes, and here the Queen retir'd. 
I Upon a ledge beneath the window lay 
I A sharpened knife with silvern hilt whereon 
I The cunning artisan had made the dog 

To chase the boar, and, seizing this, the Queen 
I From off the loaf broad slices cut in haste, 
i And o'er them pour'd the honey from the jar 
; With murmurs of delight half-heard from lips 

That now in ecstasy essay'd to taste. 
I Then o'er her senses past a drowsy calm 

As, slowly eating there alone, she grew 

Forgetful wholly of her lord the King, 

Forgetful of the honey on her gown, 



22 At the Palace of King Lot, 

Forgetful of the dinner to be cook'd, 
Forgetful of the swift-approaching noon, 
Forgetful of her kitchen and its cares. 
And this forgetfulness was pleasant to her. 

Behind the palace, in a courtyard small, 

Hemm'd in by walls to which the lichen clung 

In stains of gold and silver laced with black, 

The moon-faced Edith paced with hasty tread, 

Bearing the basket with the Monday's wash. 

Bare to the elbow were her sturdy arms. 

On which, all red with labor, shone the suds. 

Low overhead an hempen network fine 

In intricate confusion mingl'd, cross 

And bar. Thereon the damsel deftly flung 

The many motley garments of the court. 

Diverse of shape and in strange order set, 

Since here the mended hose of poorest squire 

Hung neighbor to the night-rail of the King. 

Glad was the maid to think her work was done. 

And all her youth broke forth in gladsome song- 

The song itself a thing of little wit 

But humble and accordant with her toil — 

" Rub, rub, and scrub ! the soap is on the shelf ! 
There's many a one much wiser than myself ; 
But not an old man counting o'er his pelf. 



A I the Palace of King Lot. 23 

*' Rub, rub, and scrub ! the soajD is here by me ! 
And soap is such to me if not to thee ; 
And whether soap or soda let it be. 

"Rub, scrub and rub ! and the slack clothes-Hne blows: 
Scrub, rub and scrub, and where is she ? who knows ? 
From one wash to another wash she goes." 

Loud sang the maid, and all the while behind 
An angle in the courtyard Modred sat 
Sullen, and crouch'd with mischief in his heart. 
Beside him glossy-wing'd, and sharp of beak, 
A blackbird skulk'd, with evil eye upturn'd 
To meet the evil eye of Modred bent 
On him, and one were these in purpose ill. 
j Scarce could the knavish Modred bide the time 
\ When he the moon-faced, unsuspicious maid 
' Might harm, and oft the blackbird pertly peer'd 
^ Into his face, as one that sayeth " Here 
Am I," again, and " Master, is it time ? " 
At last it chanced that as the damsel mov'd 
, Among the garments that o'erhung the space, 
I And glisten'd in the sun, she turn'd her head 
\ A moment toward the angle in the wall 
All unregardful of the danger there. 
Full roseate were her cheeks, but redder still 
Her nose, wherefore, I know not, I but tell 



24 At the Palace of King Lot. 

The tale, and this, when wicked Modred saw, 
He aim'd a villain's finger toward, whereat 
The bird, upstarting, flew with direful speed, 
And, ere the maid could frame a thought of ill, 
Had nipt the crimson'd feature with his beak. 
Sore was the hurt and loud the damsel shriek'd, 
And wildly from the courtyard ran in haste 
And pain, but ere she many steps had gone 
A cord that Modred o'er the path had stretch'd, 
Catching her feet low fell'd her to the ground. 
All heavily she sank to earth and lay 
As one whom fright and pain have overcome 
At once and stol'n away the strength to move. 

This saw the Prince, the while he prais'd the bird 
For faithful service done, and then the twain 
Departed by a secret way that none 
But Modred knew. Within the damsel's breast, 
Whenas she rose and gain'd her feet 
And naught of bird or other creature saw, 
Both rage and grief held riot bitter there, 
But in the heart of Modred joy was lord. 



Sir Evei'green, 25 



SIR El^ERGREEN. 

ARGUMENT. 

The man in tJie luilderfiess asked me 
How many strawberries grow in the sea ; 
A nd I answered him as I thought good, 
A s many as red herrings grotu in the wood. 

QIR BEVIS, faithful knight of Arthur's court, 

Returning from some mission of his lord, 
Who held him dear, and oft would send by him 
Such secret message as none else might bear. 
And who was known to all as form'd of truth 
And loving service well compact, had found. 
So late the hour, the gates of Camelot 
Fast clos'd, and he without was fain to wait 
Till morning 'neath the roof of one who dwelt 
Beside the walls by mighty Merlin made ; 
A kinsman whom Sir Bevis dearly lov'd. 
Glad was the man when he Sir Bevis saw. 
And heard the knight in courtly accents crave 
A shelter till the morn, and gladly made 
His kinsman of the famous Table Round 
Right welcome to such cheer as he possest. 



26 Sir Evergreen. 



^> 



On oaken board he threw the damask cloth, 

And on it laid the snowy manchet bread, 

The pasty rich, the lordly round of beef. 

And from a silver flagon poured the wine. 

Naught said the knight till, meat and drink consum'd, 

And hunger past, his tongue was therewith loos'd 

And with a voice like to the mellow roll 

Of music deep and full, far heard yet close 

In seeming to the eager listener's ear, 

He spoke : 

•' Kinsman, thou shouldst have been with me 
These five da3^s past, which I, at Arthur's hest, 
Have spent at court of Mark, the Cornish king 
Who wedded fair Iseult of Ireland. 
On him all courtesy is lost, but she 
Is fairer than Queen Guinevere, and false, 
Alas ! as fair, if there be any truth 
In tales of her and Tristram buzz'd about 
In Cornish court below us by the sea. 
Thou shouldst have seen the feastings and the jousts 
That graced my stay, for greatly Mark desires 
With Arthur peace and therefore honor'd me 
On embassage from blameless Arthur sent. 
For me, I care not greatly for such sports, 
But thou wast always of another mind 
And therefore shouldst have gone along with me." 
He ceas'd, and resting idly, chin in hand, 



J 



I Sir Evergreen. 27 

1 And elbow propt upon the board, he bent 
A keenly mirthful gaze upon his host. 
Then he : 

"Good Bevis, tell me not of Mark, 
Of Cornish court, of feasts or lordly jousts, 
For here, scarce three leagues off from Camelot, 
Have I adventure had to last my life, 
Yea, such, I thought, were like to end my life. 
What time that thou wert feasting with King Mark." 

To whom the knight : 

'^ Thou seemst in goodly trim 
For one so late in peril of his life ; 
But let me hear." 

Thereat while evening wan'd 
The kinsman of Sir Bevis told his tale. 

' " But two days since upon a listless morn 
/ On which the sun shone fiercely from a sky 
' Of brass, and all the winds were still and husht 

The murmuring streets of busy Camelot 
\^ I sought yon forest that, dim miles away, 

O'erspreads the plain that sloping gently bounds 
The west. Therein mov'd I as one who needs 
No friend to 'company his steps, and there, 
, Outworn by distance and by summer's heat, 
( Sank into sleep beside a hollow oak 



28 Sir Evergreen, 

And woke not till what time the evening fell 
Across the land and feebly strove the pale 
New moon to wrestle with the dark. 

Then while 
I rose bewilder'd, scarce as yet possest 
Of full remembrance of my journey thence, 
So duU'd my senses with yet lingering sleep, 
There sudden brake from covert thick of bush 
And brier that barr'd the way with thorny front, 
One mightier than any knight who sits 
At meat with Arthur at the Table Round. 
Yea, to my fears he seem'd as huge as ten 
Though they were each as stout as Lancelot, 
And fast he gript me by the hair and arm. 
The field mouse is not in the cat's grim clutch 
More helpless than was I, thy kinsman, then. 
And tremblingly I found my voice and spoke : 
' Oh, who art thou who here at close of day 
Dost hold me fast in peril of my life ? ' 
At these my words he loudly laught in scorn 
And slowly rolling both his gleaming eyes 
Upon me, gript the closer till I roar'd 
For pain. Then made he answer rough and harsh 
As watchdog's howling when the thief is nigh : 

* The lord of this great forest, lo, am I ! 

And mighty through its fruits and roots am I, 



Sir Evergreen. 29 



, Sir Evergreen am hight, and I can keep 
Thee here till doomsday, an it pleaseth thee. 



To whom then I : 

' Such fate would little please ; 
'Twould please me much the best to be let go.' 

Amaz'd, he of the wood upon me glar'd 

The space of one long minute, and the woods 

Were still. Then broke he into loud-voiced song : 

' Fate ! fate ! 'tis fate that holds thee pris'ner here ; 
Fate ! fate ! sharp fate, so think not to get clear. 
No fate, no fate so terrible as I ! 

've you not heard my strength no one can beat ? 
i, fling yourself in terror at my feet. 
No fate, no fate so terrible as I ! ' 

Full loud he sang the while I quak'd for fear, 
And thro' the forest loud the grewsome stave 
Resounded and the forest echoed ' I.' 
Then as I Vv'onder'd what should me befall, 
Once more he spoke, and, full of dread, I heard. 

* Poor craven denizen of Camelot, 

'Twas not to slay and eat thee that I sought 



30 Si J' Ev£rg}'eeit. 

Thee here. Not meet were it for me to eat 
Thy flesh, seeing I eat not meat, but still 
On fruits and roots have waxen strong, if wax 
Be strong and strong be wax.' 

Then I : 

'^^^jwax 
They name it in the streets of Camelot.' 

' Peace, kitchen knave ! ' loud roar'd Sir Evergreen, 
' Thy prate is like the buzzing of some fly 
That comes and goes and comes again, and yet 
For nothing ; such thy foolish speech. And now 
Hear me.' 

* I cannot choose but hear, good sir ; 
To me thy voice sounds louder than the blast 
That down great chimneys roars at dead of night.' 

At this, well-pleas'd, he of the wood relaxt 
Somewhat his grasp and show'd his teeth in smile ; 
A fierce array, tho' broken here and there. 

' Know then, O kitchen knave,' his words to me, 
'• Within the dusky shadows of this wood 
Have I these forty summers dwelt.' 

Then I : 
* And winters too, Sir Evergreen .'' ' 

To which 



5/r Evergreen. 31 

le answer made : 

' Not winters two^ dull knave, 
3ut winters forty as the summers are, 
'Tor have I cold nor rheumatism felt ; 
.^et dwelling thus it well may chance I know 
kit little of the outer world, and thou, 
3elike, canst tell me what I fain would hear.' 

JHe paus'd, as one who, at a loss for words, 
Doth grope about the chamber of his brain, 
And from the quest at last returns with those 
'£e had not chosen were there room for choice ; 
Bo far'd it with Sir Evergreen, who roar'd 
'mpatiently his eager question forth : 

to kitchen knave, or whatsoe'er thou art, 
ilake answer truly, hast thou seen the sea ? ' 

le ceas'd, and in the gloomy wood no sound 
^as there save faintest stir above our heads 
f half-awakened nestlings in the nest, 
'hen meekly question'd I : 

*TheA, B, C?' 
iNot so, O knave, the sea I mean doth wind 
^bout the world, as once in youth I heard 

'"' ^neak, like snake about its prey. 
' it, hast thou seen the sea ? ' 



2,2 Sir Evergreen. 

' Full oft, in winter storm and summer calm, 
Sir Evergreen,' I answered, chill with fear. 

' 'Tis well,' he roar'd, and more beside had said 
But that I spoke again and all in wrath 
He heard. 

* Strong sir, it is not well if thou 
Dost speak thus of the sea, for well and sea 
Are vastly different things, tho' water lies 
In both.' 

I ended ; scarce my words were done 
When all the temper of the man broke forth; 
Mighty his wrath and gustily he spoke : 
' Well me no wells or 'twill be ill with thee ; 
Sea me no seas, for I will seize on thee ; 
Lie me no lies or soon wilt thou lie there.' 
Thereat he dragg'd me past the hollow oak 
And fiercely pointed to a torrent deep 
That many feet below us leapt and ran 
'Mong sharp and ragged rocks that vext its course, 
And made as he would hurl me thitherward. 
More had he said, and op'd his mouth to speak 
And op'ning, chok'd, (a frog, it may be, fill'd 
His angry throat,) but later spoke more calm : 
* O knave, provoke me not, lest ill befall. 
And now once more attend. There gro'^"' ""''^ ' 
This wood, beneath the leaves and cre,^ which 



Sir Evergreen. 33 

The ground, red berries which the seeming wise 

Call straw. Full sweet and toothsome to the taste 

Are they, and on them have I often din'd 

Nigh to that hour in which the golden sun 

In high mid-heaven stands, and all about 

The leaves hang quiet in the summer's heat, — 

My one regret that there were all too few 

To satisfy the hunger in my breast. 

Now, kitchen knave, if haply thou canst tell 

How many of these berries rare within 

The sea do grow, it may be I can feed 

Thereon when these within the woods are gone.' 

He ended here, and on me bent his gaze 
Willi all expectancy, as one who sits 

vit'iin a dry and thirsty land, and sees 
^he storm-clouds gather in the far southwest. 
r^ pausing, I kept silence for a space; 
Then, as the shadows darken'd in the w^ood, 
Anc owls from out the hollow oak flew forth 
Witii baleful shriek to meet the coming night, 
Mace answer to the question as I deem'd 
It b^st. 'The sea is wide. Sir Evergreen, 

\ ' hard were it for any man to count 
number rightly all that is therein, 

- near enow for purpose practical 

-"th I may answer to thy quest. 



34 'S'/> Evergreen. 

Of berries toothsome, which the wise call straw, 

(Though not a straw care I for what they say, 

Notev'n the straw which breaks the camel's back. 

Nor that which shows the changeful current's course,) 

There grow within the angry-bosom'd sea 

As many as of herrings red are found 

In green and dusky confines of the wood.' 

Thus I, and he before me listen'd all 
Attent as child who, by some fireside warm, 
On winter evenings ere the hour for bed 
Heark'neth, delighted, to some fairy tale, 
But keepeth silent lest a word be lost ; 
So all in hope heard he, but at the last 
Grew sad and loos'd his grasp, yet gaz'd 
Upon me sternly that I dar'd not stir 
For fear. Then, while I wonder'd at him, gave 
A cry whose tingling echoes reach'd the stars : 
* O knave ! I know not what red herrings be ! ' 
Full bitterly he cried, and, turning, past 
Adown the forest, and the forest clos'd 
Upon him, and uncheck'd I went my way.'' 



" A grewsome tale," the bold Sir Bevis said 

When all was ended and the story told. 

And then the twain to slumber past, and dreams. 



Thomas and Vivien. 35 



THOMAS AND VIVIEN, 

ARGUMENT. 

Tom, Tom, tJie piper's son, 

Stole a pig and away he ran. 

The pig was eat, and Tom was beat 

A 7td Tom went crying dow>i tlte street. 

'T^HOMAS the young, Thomas the mischievous, 

Thomas the dark-brow'd lad of Camelot, 
After a day of mirth and reveling 
At court, in which, tho' oft rebuk'd, his voice 
Had ever mingl'd, louder than the rest, 
And shriller than the storm-drave seabird's cry, 
Alone within a triple-window'd room 
That in his father's dwelling faced the east, 
Upon his bed, ere sleep her wings had wav'd 
Above him, lay and meditated much 
In what new mischief he should next engage ; 
Then, ere conclusion harmful could be reach'd, 
Slipt into sleep, and dreaming, past to fields 
Where youth and mischief held high holiday. 

Sole son was he of old Sir Guy ; a man 
Of stature humble, but of wisdom great. 



36 TJionias and Vivien. 

Who now was counted of the Table Round, 

But in his youth, as some could still recall, 

Ere from the land of Cameliard he came. 

The sometime piper to its lord and King 

Leodogran, 'gainst whom the heathen warr'd ; 

But after, when the peerless Guinevere, 

The daughter of Leodogran, had been 

By holy Dubric to King Arthur wed. 

Had past to Camelot ; and there by dint 

Of faithful service in a humble place. 

But more because the King the hre of truth 

And nobleness perceiv'd in him and lov'd 

Him for it, was now made knight, and brightly shone 

In burnisht armor at King Arthur's court. 

With him the King had counsel many times, 

For knowledge deep of men and things Sir Guy 

Possest, and year by year his wisdom grew 

The riper as his head grew white. But since 

To no man living perfect wisdom comes 

It hapt therefore, that in one thing, not small, 

Sir Guy, the sage was wanting, and tlie King 

1 o him had that day put a question hard. 

" How chances it. Sir Guy," had Arthur said, 
" That thou whom all men reverently call 
The wi.^;est of our court, now Merlin lies 
A pris'ner in the wood of Broceiiande, 



Thomas and Vivien. 37 

Hast fail'd, or so it seemeLh to our eyes, 
To rule and govern well thine only son ? " 
He ceas'd and then, from out a passage close 
Beside, a woman came and stood before 
And cried : 

" O King, who never yet wouldst see 
And willingly, injustice done to aught, 
Hearken to me. But now my son, in years 
Scarce ten and slender as a flower, was set 
Upon and beaten by a lad, the son, 
It hap'neth, of thy wisest knight, Sir Guy, 
And therefore may it please thee, noble King, 
To see that this young Thomas, for so him 
They call, be dealt with sternly, as is sure 
His due." 

She spoke in haste, not seeing him 
Who stood beside the king, and courteously 
Made Arthur answer to her, and she went 
From out the kingly presence glad of heart. 
When the last echo of her steps had ceas'd, 
The King again to his companion turn'd 
Repeating in the glances of his eyes 
The question that before was ask'd with lips. 
Stroking his chin in thought. Sir Guy abode 
In silence for a space, then, sudden, flasht 
A face of mirthful radiance on the King, 
And be2:2:'d his lord would listen to a tale. 



38 Thomas and Vivien. 

" Full willingly, Sir Guy," replied the King, 
And smootli'd the gilded dragon on his robe. 

" A peasant in the land of Cameliard," 

Began Sir Guy, " a slender living won 

By keeping ducks and geese, and round his hut 

Their constant screams and quackings harshly rang 

From earliest hours, — sweet music to his ears. 

One spring it chanced that from the nest two geese 

Came off at once leading their callow young. 

One mother proudly walk'd in front of ten 

Yellow as gold, and all submissively 

They follow'd where she led, nor seem'd to dream 

Of will apart from hers. The other goose 

Was mother of but one, and this one black 

And wayward, such as never had been seen. 

In vain the mother strove obedience 

From this to gain; and oft her comrades shook 

Their heads, foreboding ills that lay in wait 

For errant goslings that obey'd no law. 

At last the mother strove no more but left 

Her single gosling to its own wild will : 

But when a year had gone the peasant saw 

No finer bird amongst his flock than this 

Of which such dire prediction had been made. 

But she that led abroad her brc od of ten 

Ere summer ended saw them fall a prey 



Ihonias and Vivien. 39 

To enemies that lurkt in grass and pool, 
And one by one they slowly disappear'd 
Till autumn came and found her desolate." 

"A clever tale," here spoke the King, and smil'd 
" But all things are not rul'd by accident. 
Sir Guy, and seldom from the thorns do men 
Attempt the purple-cluster'd grape to pluck, 
And this, Sir Guy, the wise, should know as well, 
Or better, even, than the King himself." 
Then, rising, Arthur past with thoughtful step 
Unto the bower of Guinevere, his Queen. 

Thomas the young, Thomas the mischievous, 

Awak'ning on the morrow from his sleep. 

Beheld from out the windows of his room 

A sight that fill'd his bosom with delight. 

For while as down the narrow street he glanced, 

A well-fed sow, attended by the train 

Of youthful swine that made her litter small. 

With grunts of deep content slow rang'd along. 

A moment only gaz'd the lad, then stole 

With soundless steps down the long stair, and peer'd 

Into the street without. In narrow lines 

Thro' rifts between high houses shone the sun 

And lay in golden bars across the street. 

A soft breeze lifted banners from the walls 



40 Thomas and Vivien. 

And tost them lightly in the air. Scarce had 
The city wak'd, and only here and there 
An early-risen scullion, rubbing eyes 
In which the sleep yet linger'd, went his way 
To morning task. The lagging steps of these 
And noise of swine the only sounds that stirr'd 
The silence of the town. All cautiously 
The lad with careful feet, on mischief bent 
Crept toward the trustful, unsuspicious swine, 
But, as his shadow fell across a bar 
Of gold, the mother felt the danger near, 
And, shrieking, fled, with all her litter'd tribe 
At heels. But one, the smallest, tenderest 
Of all, because less swift of foot than all 
The rest, the ruthless Thomas seiz'd and bore 
Triumphant to his friend, the palace cook. 
The twain intending later on the pig 
To dine. 

Ill reckon'd they, the knavish pair, 
For wily Vivien thro' her lattice saw 
The theft, and so, because she lov'd to tell 
A tale, and more because the lad had been 
Full oft a torment to her, later went 
And told King Arthur what the son of Guy 
Had done. The blameless King when he her tale 
In silence heard, not doubting that for once 
She spoke the truth, bade some one call Sir Guy 



Thomas and Vivien. 41 

And Tom, and summon likewise all the court. 
When this was done the King upon Sir Guy 
Bent brows of sudden wrath and said : 

"Thy 'one 
Black gosling,' O Sir Guy, in growing up 
1"o be the chiefcist goose, or what thou wilt, 
Of all his time, is like, I fear me much, 
To prove a very fruitful source of ill 
Among the youth of tender age at court." 
To this in humbleness Sir Guy replied : 
" It may be as thou sayest ; therefore do 
Unto him as thou wilt." 

Then call'd the King 
Sir Kay, the seneschal, and gave command 
That at the stroke of noon Sir Kay should lay 
On thieving Thomas full twelve stripes with rod 
Of season'd birch ; and hearing this, a smile 
Of joy ran round the court, and no one rais'd 
A voice of pity, for none pitied him. 
Then as Sir Kay the luckless Thomas led 
From out the presence of the court and King, 
The wily Vivien past to where the cooks 
And scullions bode and singling out the one 
She knew to be the friend of Thomas, drew 
From him with all her wondrous woman's art 
The after hist'ry of the stolen pig. 



42 Thomas and Vivien. 

Won by the damsel's smile, before he knew, 
The cook, a simple knave and all unus'd 
To arts like these of Vivien's, promise gave 
That he at noon the roasted pig would place 
Upon the table in her private bower, 
For on such fare full well she lov'd to dine. 
The promise made again she smil'd and seem'd 
As innocently fair as Enid, wife 
To Prince Geraint, and, dazzl'd by such grace 
To him, a kitchen servingman, he stood 
With floury hands on hips and open mouth, 
And wide eyes staring as she past without. 

Thomas the young, Thomas the mischievous, 

With dark anticipation watcht the sun 

As rapidly it clomb the morning sky, 

And much too short the time till from the tow'rs 

Was clasht the hour of noon, but to the maid 

The hours paced slow, and oft she sigh'd for noon 

Impatiently exclaiming to herself 

That never had been known a morn so long. 

But when, on platter hot, the cook the pig 

Brought in, her humor chang'd and thereupon 

Grew all as sweet as breath of flowers in June. 

Low bow'd the man as she within his palm 

A gold'n token slipt from fingers white, 

The while he heard her voice his cooking praise, 



TJionias and Vivien. 43 

And felt the magic of her presence near 
And vainly wish'd himself of her degree ; 
For breath of scandal soiling Vivien's name 
Had not so far as palace kitchen blown, 
And therefore deem'd he still the damsel pure. 

Long linger'd she o'er this her fav'rite dish, 
And none the less 'twas sweet to her who knew 
That high above the tumult of the streets 
Below, in direful anguish, rang the shrieks 
Of Tom. 



44 1^^^^ Vision of Sir Lainoracke. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAMORACKE, 

ARGUMENT. 

As I was going to Sahit Ives 

J met sezien 7vives. 
Every ivife had seven sacks ; 
Every sack had seven cats ; 
Every cat had seven kits ; 
Kits, cats, sacks and -wives, 

How inatty were going to Saint Ives ? 

ly^ING PELLINORE of Wales, the same who slew 

Lot, King of Orkney in the Northern seas, 
Three stalwart sons in wedlock lawful had. 
Sir Lamoracke de Galis eldest was 
Of these, the next Sir Aglavale, the third 
The pure Sir Percivale, and these were knights 
Of Table Round, and with them Tor, the child 
Of shame but brother to the three no less, 
And first created knight of Table Round 
The Table of the great Pendragonship. 
Sir Lamoracke among King Arthur's knights 
Was bravest save for three, but since the three 
Were Lancelot, Tristram and Geraint, no less 
Of honor deem'd it reck'nin^: fourth with these. 



The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 45 

In the mid-strength and hardihood of youth 
He was when vision by his sister seen, 
A holy nun much worn by fastings long, 
Sent half the court in quest of Holy Grail ; 
And Lamoracke went, as eager as the rest, 
And all for holy longing underwent 
Long toilsome days, and nights as wearisome, 
And piteous perils manifold he knew, 
Until, a twelvemonth past, he set his face 
Again toward Camelot with yet no glimpse 
Of what he sought, and sorrow in his heart. 

One morning chanced it that while pacing slow 

With head bent down and gaze upon the ground 

On homeward way thro' forest deep that stretched 

From Camelot southward many leagues, there crost 

His path a ten-tin'd stag, and after rode 

A knight he knew to be Sir Sagramour, 

In fierce pursuit, who, seeing in the wood 

A horseless knight all travel-worn and sad, 

Left flying deer to its wild will and leapt 

From his own horse and begg'd Sir Lamoracke 

Ride in his place as being one of those 

Who went in search of Hoi}' Grail. Thus said 

The sweet Sir Sagramour and added thence : 

" Thy face. Sir Lamoracke, is not unknown 

To me." 



4-6 The Vision of Sir Laviorackc. 

Then slowly Lamoracke answer'd him : 
" O all for naught my quest and not for one 
Like me the vision glorious, but thou, 
Methinks, for knightly courtesy the peer 
Of any at the court, might well have seen 
What I, the son of Pellinore, have not." 

" Not I," then spoke the sweet Sir Sagramour, 
" Being ensnar'd with earthly things unto 
My hurt, but an' I pray you, Lamoracke, ride. 
My castle scarce a half league distant stands, 
There mayst thou rest, at least until the morn, 
And ride to court equipt as knight should be 
So far as my poor store shall serve thy turn." 

Then Lamoracke lookt up and answer'd him, 
"Ah, sweet Sir Sagramour, none other suit 
Suits with my sadden'd fortunes like to this 
Which now I wear and therefore in array 
Like this must I before King Arthur pass 
Once more." 

Then answer made Sir Sagramour 
"Thou knowest best, but still I pray you ride 
Llomeward with me and eat and rest a night ; 
Else thou wilt never live to see thy lord 
At all, in this or any other garb." 



The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 47 

Full gentle was the manner of the man, 

And Lamoracke for utter weariness 

Gave way and past with sweet Sir Sagramour 

Unto the other's castle near at hand, 

Yet thinking, "on the morrow I will go." 

As one who following the chase for da3'S 

Scarce heeds his wearied limbs because so full 

Of eager haste but home returning finds 

Each step a pain and life a mockery, 

So now with Lamoracke, who, with the fire 

Of zeal and holy purpose quite burnt out, 

Tarried for days with sweet Sir Sagramour, 

Too weak for further travel and heart-sick 

Withal because of failure in the Quest. 

To him in those dark days came Sagramour 

And whisper'd, " Courage ; failure is not crime." 

And after came the wife of Sagramour 

Beseeching him to be of cheer, to whom 

He heark'n'd listlessly. Then came a child 

The son of these, a three-years winsome lad 

Who stammer'd " Courage " as he had been taught, 

And seeing that Sir Lamoracke took no heed 

Stammer'd his lesson o'er again, whereat 

The knight, half rising on his elbow, turn'd 

z\nd saw^ the boy with parted lips, and cheeks 

All satin soft, and hair and eyes the hue 

Of sable pansies, staring full at him; 



48 TJie Vision of Sir Lauioi-acke. 

Then Lamoracke rose and caught the lad in arms 
And kiss'd him oft and spoke full tenderly : 
" Thou bidd'st me be of courage, little one ? 
Yea, for thy sake I will," and from that time 
Shook off, as far as might be, sad regret. 

Yet still strength linger'd on its way to him, 
And with these a sennight longer bode, 
And after rose refresh'd and went his way. 
But ere that time he told to please his host 
Full many a tale of what had hapt to him 
In Quest of Holy Grail and once the tale 
Ran like to this. 

"One morning after dreams," 
So said Sir Lamoracke, " of Holy Grail 
Seen by me who unworthy am to see 
With waking eyes, I past, for then was I 
In Cornwall by the sea, along a road 
That wound past splinter'd crag and shallow cove 
To fishing village of Saint Ives. Seaward 
Saint Michael's Mount rose like a vision fair 
All roseate with dawm and softly broke 
Against its base the Cornish sea. A light 
Breeze blew that gently stirr'd the leaves and then 
Rested content while overhead a flock 
Of birds shrill'd one to other, flying south 



The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 49 

The sound clear falling thro' the morning air. 
The weather-beaten fishers mended nets 
Sitting on boats updrawn beside the sea 
And hail'd me with * good-morrow ' as I past, 
In simple fisher wise. Suddenly round 
An angle in the path before me came 
Full seven fisher-wives bending beneath 
A heavy burden each one bore in sack 
Of dusty leather on her shoulders old. 
Small trace had these of brow may-blossom, cheek 
Of apple blossom or the eye of hawk, 
And clumsily the wrinkl'd nose of each, 
Tip-tilted, like a thirsty duckling's bill 
After much guzzling in the pool, did seem 
To point the way. A wailing clamor rose 
In air and louder grew as nearer came 
The seven, halting where I stood aside 
To let them pass, and lowering their sacks 
Upon the ground- 
in much amaze I ask'd 
The seven what their burden was, whereat 
The nearest shrilly pip'd forth : 

" Cats, sir knight, 
To rid the palace of King Mark of rats 
That fright the fair Iseult, his Queen." 

At this 
Each wrinkl'd dame her knotted sack-string loost 



50 The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 

And forth from out the seven sacks there stalk'd 
With pace sedate, and slowly waving tails, 
And deep-ton'd purrings of well-fed content, 
Full seven times seven cats and every one 
The mother proud of seven kittens small 
That sprawl'd and mew'd beside the sacks. 

Such sight 
I never saw in Camelot, altho' 
Our Camelot is vaster than Saint Ives 
And cats enow contains, as one may deem 
Who finds his slumber broken by their wails 
On roof and tow'r from midnight till the dawn, 
And long I star'd at sprawling kits, and cats, 
And sacks, and wives, until within the sacks 
The seven wives replaced the cats and kits 
And journey'd forward, wives, and sacks, and cats, 
And kits, while I with musings curious 
Past onward to Saint Ives." 

"A sight indeed," 
Here spoke Sir Sagramour, " and speedily 
The burden of the seven wives should clear 
The Cornish castle of its brood of rats 
Save one, its churlish lord, for fouler rat 
Than Mark, the craven, lives not upon earth." 

To whom Sir Lamoracke : 

" True, Sir Sagramour, 



The Vision of Sir Lavwracke. 5 1 

But tell me of thy wit, which passes mine, 
How many, reck'nest thou, to fair Saint Ives 
Were going on that morning, kits, and cats, 
And sacks, and wives." 

So sweet Sir Sagramour 
Knit brows, and tighten'd lips, and fingers told 
The space of three long hours till fell the sun 
And creeping darkness came upon the land, 
And still no nearer was he to result 
Than he had been at first when Lamoracke put 
The question, nor with morning was it clear. 
And with the morning Lamoracke went his way. 



52 The Return from the Quest. 



THE RETURN FROM THE QUEST 

ARGUMENT. 

Hark! hark! 
The dogs do bark ; 

Beggars are coming to town. 
Some in rags, 
And some in tags, 

A nd some in velvet gown. 

T^HE summer brooded and the winds were husht, 

And on the palace walls the sunshine slept, 
And all within King Arthur's court withdrew 
To where the shadows deepest lay, and thought 
Of winter and the snow. But he, the King, 
Sitting beside a window that o'erhung 
The stream that murmur'd past the lichen'd walls 
And wander'd thro' the meadows to the sea, 
Mus'd on the time when of the Table Round 
The number was complete and of his knights 
Not one was absent from his place. But now 
The seat of many a one in Arthur's hall 
Was vacant, and from off the walls was gone 
Full many a blazon'd, burnisht, knightly shield. 
This had not been, so sadly Arthur mus'd, 
But for the apparition of the Grail 
Seen in a vision by that holy maid, 



The Rettcrn from the Quest. 5 3 

The sister of Sir Percivale, who told 
The wondrous tale to all his brother knights, 
And straightway set them longing for the Quest. 
Then, while he mus'd, the voice of Dagonet, 
The fool, shrill'd thro' the silence, and the King 
Lookt up. Before him stood the fool, who call'd, 
" Arouse, my brother fool, and hark to me ! " 
Then answer'd Arthur, nothing loth to break 
A jest or two with little Dagonet, 
" But why thy brother fool am I ? " 

To whom 
The jester, shaking all his bells, replied, 
*' What sayest thou of him who constant wears 
A thistle next his heart and knows not whence 
His pain ? Who fain would make a shining crown 
From lumps of lead ? And such a fool art thou. 
And therefore shouldst thou wear a cap and bells, 
And therefore have I call'd thee brother fool." 
Then thus the King : 

" A bitter, pointless jest ; 
Thy wit doth not increase as doth thy age." 
To whom, in answer, shrill'd Sir Dagonet : 
" Said I not truly? Take my cap and bells ; " 
Then mutter'd, past the hearing of his lord, 
" The thistle next his heart is Guinevere, 
His Queen," and after, spoke aloud, "Thy knights, 
My brother fool, are not they all dull lumps 



54 The Return from the Quest. 

Of lead ? And after all thy pains are spent 
Upon them leaden still they yet remain. 
Of such as these thou vainly hop'st to make 
A shining crown of manhood in thy realm, 
And therefore have I call'd thee 'brother fool.'" 
"Thy wit is sharply edged, my fool," here spoke 
The King, " and yet, for all its sharpness, fails." 

Thereat the dwarf peer'd curiously up 

Into his master's face, and seeing naught 

Unusual in its kingly grace, had turn'd, 

But turning, caught the echo of a sigh, 

And knew his arrow reach'd King Arthur's heart. 

Thereafter fell a silence on the twain 

And Arthur mus'd as sadly as before 

On hopes that had been his in long-past days 

When he had plann'd the healing of the world. 

Slow past a morning hour until at last 

A momentary vagrant breeze, that thro' 

The high, unlatticed, open window swept, 

Tost aimlessly an early wither'd leaf 

Into the kingly lap. Then spoke the King, 

Smoothing the faded leaf : 

" Sir Dagonet, 
It may be that thy song is gentler than 
Thy wit ; if so be, let me hear." 



The Return from the Quest. 5 5 

Whereat 
The dwarf, moving to where a gilded harp 
Half hidden in a corner of the room 
Gleam'd like a star in mellow darkness set, 
Sudden swept all its strings impatiently, 
And when the gust of music sank and died 
And rose again to live in Vv'ailing, sang, — 
And sad and bitter were the tune and words. 

"High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 

may; 
The buds have blown, their perfume is no more ; 
The time is sped, the glory past away ; 
New time, new strife, — the hours of joy are o'er; 
New strife, new hate, to fit this later day ; 
New hates are deep as those that were before ; 
High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 

may." 

The singer ended, and his bitter notes 
Were follow'd by the snapping of a string. 
Then said the King : 

" Ye do the harp a wrong, 
To make it sponsor for your grewsome stave, 
And kinder had it been to chant a strain 
More pleasing unto weary ears like mine." 



$6 The Rettim from the Quest. 

To whom then sadly spake Sir Dagonet : 

" No lightsome lays are left to sing ; the hours 
Of joy are o'er ; " and while the King his words 
Revolv'd in mind and echo found therein, 
The dwarf obeisance made and danced away. 

"High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 

may," 
The King said slowly to himself, and paus'd, 
For sudden rose a clamor in the streets, 
As if the countless dogs of Camelot 
Were all one voice, such uproar was there made. 
Then Arthur, wond'ring at the din, arose 
And past to an apartment that o'erlookt 
The city's streets, and peering forth, he saw 
A train of weary pilgrims near the city walls. 
Then open swung the weirdly sculptur'd gates, 
And Arthur knew the men, his knights return'd 
From Quest of Holy Grail. And first rode Bors 
And Lancelot. Dim were the trappings once 
So gay on men and steeds, and tatter'd shreds 
Now wav'd and flutter'd from their garments' hems. 
Behind rode Percivale, in dusty rags, 
And after, others worn and torn as he, 
And beggars never seem'd so poor as these. 
The crest and flower of Arthur's Table Round ; 



The ReUwn fi^om the Quest, 57 

But last of all Gawain in velvet fine 
Flasht gayly by with knightly comrades twain, 
For pleasant was the Quest for him who made 
So sure the holy Quest was not for him, 
And thus King Arthur saw his knights return 
From Quest a twelvemonth long of Holy Grail. 

Loud rose the canine clamor in the streets 
As these rode by, a beggar throng to eyes 
Which saw them pass beyond the city walls 
The year before, impelled by holy zeal, 
And he who now shone brightest, false Gawain, 
In honor's ranks the faintest of them all, 
But shriller rang the voice of Dagonet 
Dancing beside the train, who, as he saw 
The kingly face regarding all who past. 
With slender finger pointed to the knights 
Return'd as beggars from their bootless Quest, 
And sang, and bitter both the notes and words, — 

"High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 



may 



)> 



58 The Maid's Alarm. 



THE MAID'S ALARM. 

ARGUMENT. 

Little Miss Mnffet 
Sat on a ttiffet. 

Eating of curds and whey. 
There cajne a black spider. 
Which sat down beside her, 

A nd frightened Miss AInffct away. 

QUEEN GUINEVERE at Almesbury abode 
Unknown, after her shameful flight from court, 
And there the long days came and went, and found 
And left her thrall to grief. One little maid 
Companion'd her, a novice in that house, 
To whom the Queen in lighter hours of grief — 
For sorrow weighs not always equally. 
Else there were none could bear — gave listless heed. 
As one through blinding mists of care and dole 
Might half discern a kitten at its play. 
And smile, scarce comprehending why, so she, 
The Queen, unto the novice's prattle turn'd 
Half ear, dulling, it may be, thus the edge 
Of grief, for low the maiden's voice and sweet. 
" Sir Feumbras my father was," so said 



The Maid's Alarm. 59 

The maid, "a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
A goodly man, much favor'd of his King. 
To him King Arthur gave to wife the fair 
Jehanne of Camelot, and I was born 
Of these who in the selfsame summer died, 
A lustrum since." 

Low to herself the Queen, 
"I knew them both, a simple, happy pair. 
Who lov'd each other and who knew no sin." 
Then spoke again the maid : 

"Thereafter liv'd 
I with the kinsfolk of my name until 
A twelvemonth back I came to Almesbury. 
But oft I sigh for Camelot and think 
In dreams I hear my father call my name. 
The name himself would give me when I pleas'd 
Him well, for yet I had another name." 
"Yea, and what was it .-* " said the sad-ey'd Queen. 
To whom the novice answer'd, 

" Guinevere, 
The name that's borne at court by Arthur's Queen." 
" A luckless name," the Queen made answer here, 
" A name that carries with it shame and tears." 
" And think you thus ? " in awe the novice said, 
" Yet so it seems these latter days, if words 
They say of Arthur's Queen indeed be true. 



6o The Maid's Alarm. 

Perchance my father fear'd it when he call'd 
Me Muffet in its stead. Would I might hear 
Him call me Muffet now," — and here the maid 
Her sentence broke in air and mus'd a space, 
And silence fell upon the twain, and roll'd 
Far off the thunder while a summer storm 
Drew quickly on. 

Then guilty Guinevere 
Past into sadder musings than the maid's, 
And nearer crept the storm and darker grew 
The cell wherein they sat. But she, the Queen, 
Deep wrapt in bitter thoughts, knew not of this. 
But felt at last a pulling at her gown. 
And, rousing, saw no form, but heard a cry, — 
"The storm! the storm." Then came a deaf'ning 

sound, 
As if the tow'rs of all the world were thrown 
To earth, and in the yellow, quiv'ring flame 
She saw the novice's frighten' d face and gleam 
Of holy symbols on the wall. Close clung 
The maid, and when the storm grew one fierce roar, 
And darting flame one baleful yellow glare, 
Shudd'ring, the novice hid an awestruck face 
Within the folds of samite black that clothed 
The Queen. Then Guinevere the elder threw 
One arm about the younger Guinevere, 
And waited for the ceasing of the storm. 



TJie Maid's Alarm. 6 1 

Guilt shielding tender Innocence, — thus ran 
The bitter thought of Arthur's sinful wife. 
So past an hour, until, its passion sjDent, 
The storm rush'd angrily to other lands, 
And drew with it the roar and gloom and glare ; 
And after, through the casement, came a shaft 
Of yellow sungleam, that in sport did seem 
To move and flicker o'er the rush-spread floor. 
Thereat the little novice rais'd her head 
From out the sable samite folds, and fell 
Again to harmless prattle of herself 
And of her simple life before she came 
To Almesbury. 

" Few mates I had, nor car'd," 
So went the tale, " and happier was I 
To sit at home and list to tales of arms 
Told by my father and his brother knights 
Than roam the city streets unthrift of joy. 
And when my mother prais'd my daily task 
If done as she would have it, would she place 
Upon the board before me curds. and whey 
With snowy manchet bread for well she knew 
What fare of all I deem'd the best. 

And once 
I sat beneath a hanging vine, that made 
A cool, green shadow at the farther end 
Of the long garden at my father's house. 



62 The Maid's Alarvi. 

Over me sang the joyous birds full sweet, 

And close beside uprose a lofty wall, 

On which the golden moss and lichen slept. 

A curious, carven, wooden bowl I held, 

Fill'd almost to its brim with curds and whey, 

And on the crimson-tufted tuffet where 

I sat, with space enow for two, a loaf 

Of toothsome manchet lay. No single care 

Had I, the contents of the carven bowl 

The limit of my childish wants ; but ere 

The spoon to lip was lifted, all the song 

Above my head was husht and silence crept 

Athwart the golden afternoon. Then I, 

With boding fear, turn'd to the lichen'd wall 

And on its surface saw a hideous blot 

With moving legs, and horny claws, and eyes 

Quick darting. Scarce my father's blazon'd shield 

Might hide the creature's bulk, for surely saw 

I never yet a spider huge as this 

Which from the wall at last, down-dropping, came 

And on the crimson-tufted tuffet sat. 

And sitting, turn'd its baleful glance on me. 

A moment only stay'd I there in fear. 

And then the horror of it on me grew 

Until I fied in haste, the carven bowl 

Rolling before me, and the garden walk 

Whit'ning with streaming curds and whey. And when 



The Maid's Alarm. 63 

I told the tale indoors, Sir Feumbras, 
My father, shook his head and fear'd lest this 
Might be an omen of dread thing to be, 
And went at last to Merlin with the tale, 
Whom all men counted wisest of the time." 
With mention of the wizard's name, the Queen, 
Who had half heard, not wholly lost, the tale, 
Rous'd to the full ear as she ask'd, " What said 
The sage ? " 

" But little we might understand," 
Replied the maid, '• for dark his meaning was, 
And faint his words behind his winter beard, 
But mostly seem'd it like to this : ' /\gain 
In years to come a shape beside the child 
Shall sit ; not black, like this, but fair to look 
Upon, and safer were she by the first 
With bowl of curds and whey.' Thus Merlin spake, 
But I, — I know not all he meant." 

Thereat 
The Queen looked hard upon the maid, in doubt 
If she were simple-seeming as her words ; 
And while she gazed her face grew stern and dark, 
The sunshine drew itself from off the floor, 
The wind swept sobbing thro' a door ajar, 
And, in a sudden horror, from the room 
The maid fled shudderin;/ ! 



64 The Water Carriers. 



THE WATER CARRIERS. 

ARGUMENT. 

Jack attd Gill went up the hill 

To draw a pail of water. 
Jack fell dawn aftd broke his crown 

A nd Gill canie tu7nbling after. 

" 00 all day long the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains by the winter sea," 
But young Lavaine, the knight of Astolat, 
And brother to the lily maid who died 
For Lancelot's love, was reckon'd not of those 
Who "fell in Lyonnesse about their Lord," 
King Arthur, whom the three Queens bore away. 
For he, Lavaine, who lov'd Sir Lancelot 
But reverenced his King and conscience more, 
Had hasten'd to the standard of his King 
When evil-hearted Modred rais'd revolt. 
And Lancelot, the faithless, stain'd, alas ! 
His manhood, warring 'gainst his friend and King. 
And so, because the lad was true and brave, 
And modest seeming, nor was rash of speech, 
Had Arthur made him of the Table Round 



The Water Carrieis. 65 

And lov'cl to have him near. Whereat Lavaine 
Greatly rejoic'd and ghidly would have died 
To serve in any wise the blameless King. 
But when the sun came from the under world 
And shone upon that field of battle near 
The winter sea, Lavaine by Arthur's side 
Receiv'd a vengeful thrust aim'd at the King, 
And from his horse, slow reeling, fell, and o'er 
Him swept the host; but bluff Sir Torre, who saw 
His brother fall, came spurring hence and dragg'd 
Him to one side, and there, in knightly wise, 
Gave him such tendance as his wit devis'd, 
And left him, guarded by a humble squire, 
But thinking, " If I live, I will return ; " 
And scarce an hour was gone before a stroke 
From one of Modred's men had cleft Sir Torre 
From brain to nape. So died he for his Lord. 

But of his tendance or his death Lavaine 
Knew naught, but lay in stupor deep as death, 
And to the eye that watch'd he seem'd as dead. 
Whereat the humble squire mus'd to himself : 

" If he be dead, he needs not me to guard ; 
And if he be alive his foes will think 
Him dead, and truly I do deem him dead, 
Yet be he dead or living I must see 



66 The Water Carriers. 

The issue of the fight," and saying went 

And saw, and, seeing, met the death which might 

Have spar'd him by the side of Sir Lavaine. 

" So all day long the noise of battle roll'd," 

Yet Sir Lavaine in stupor lay upon 

The field until the sun went down, and shone 

The moon at full upon his armor clasps 

And glinted on the chasing of his sword. 

As one who journeying in lands remote 

Returning takes by slow degrees the old 

Life up, so Sir Lavaine return'd from death 

Or what had seem'd like death, not all at once 

But dimly had a knowledge of his state 

And what had past, and then, because too weak 

To think, he fell in sleep again and wak'd 

Not till the sun brake from the underworld. 

And near him, having watch'd the barge that bore 

King Arthur out of sight, there slowly drew 

The bold Sir Bedivere. These two last left 

Alive upon the field. 

The mournful twain 
At length slow moving from the field, because 
Lavaine was weak from hunger and the wound, 
Past on to where within a little wood 
A simple hermit liv'd a blameless life. 



TJie Water Carriers. 6/ 

Willi him the pair abode until Lavaine 
Was heal'd and then the bold Sir Bedivere 
Past to his own land, distant Cameliard, 
And then, a little later, past Lavaine 
To his. 

Small joy was now at Astolat 
For him, the last of all his race, and night 
And day he seem'd to hear the lily maid 
Singing her swan song from the eastern tow'r, 
Or bluff Sir Torre stride thro' the broken halls, 
Or else his father, dead a year agone, 
Calling him tenderly as was his wont, 
And so by always listening to the dead 
He ceased to hearken to the living voice, 
And more and more withdrew into himself. 

But when the next approaching spring had fail'd 
To stir the languid blood within his veins, 
The dumb old servitor before him stood 
One April morning in the castle yard 
And pointed to the south, and then by signs 
Essay'd to free his mind, and Sir Lavaine, 
Half comprehending, asked him, " Shall I go 
Thither? " Thereat the dumb old man nodded, 
His finger once more pointing to the south. 
So, deeming that his humble servitor 



68 TJie Water Carriers. 

Had deeper knowledge of the best, Lavaine, 

A little later gathering the few 

Who serv'd for love, not hire, within the halls 

Of Astolat, past with them into lands 

Of Cornish name, and made a home for them 

And for himself ; and, marrying a maid 

Of Cornish race, saw children of his own 

And all the past became a memory. 

Before his home in Cornwall lay the sea, 

And a thick wood behind it northward stretch'd 

But to the left a dusty white road climb'd 

A hill on which there frown'd a single tow'r, 

And on the farther side a hamlet slept 

In peace and plenty, owning him for lord. 

There o'er his Cornish castle past the years 

From churlish winter into spring until 

Ten times the ash buds blackened with the winds 

Of March since blameless Arthur past beyond 

The mournful gaze of bold Sir Bedivere. 

A younger copy of himself, or like 
Himself when but eight tender seasons old, 
Now listen'd, wonder-ey'd, to Sir Lavaine 
When he would talk of arms and of the last 
Great day in Lyonnesse. Jack had the lad 
Been call'd for some past claimant for the hand 



The Water Carriers. 69 

Of her Lavaine call'd wife, yet this Lavaine 
Knew not, but deem'd the unfamiliar name 
A careless fancy of his Cornish wife's, 
Whose lightest fancy 'twas his care to please. 
Slender the lad, as once his father was, 
But all the blood of lusty Astolat 
Made summer in his veins. Seldom apart 
From him his sister Gillian was, and each 
Without the other droopt and pin'd. Most like 
Her aunt, the dead Elaine, young Gillian seem'd, 
And oft the father, looking at her, felt 
Remembrance of the distant past confuse 
The present, till if he were boy or man 
And this his child or playmate sister seem'd 
Sometimes a thing of doubt. 

The two, the maid 
And Jack, lov'd better than all else to climb 
The long white road, that steep and stony, led 
Up to the single, broken, frowning tow'r. 
Four trees beside the tow'r bent o'er a spring 
That broke from out a sombre, rocky cleft. 
Here Tristram once had drunk with fair Iseult, 
Mark's wife, and laught to see the shining drops 
Slip thro' her fingers, when she held her hand 
Cupwise, that he might drink therefrom. And here 
Had sweet Sir Percivale once stopt to drink, 



70 TJie IVa/er Carriers. 

Returning from the Quest of Holy Grail ; 
Here, too, had Pelleas, the bright boy knight, 
A brief hour linger'd, flying from the court 
In that dark time when all his early faith 
In woman's virtue died, and good Sir Bors, 
The false Gawain, the pure Sir Galahad, 
And many more of that great Table Round 
Had drunk from these sweet waters to their gain. 
Full oft had Gillian and the stripling Jack 
Bent o'er the spring as bent the trees above, 
And laught to see two faces gazing up, 
One fair and pale, the other fair and red. 
Maid Gillian's was the one, the other his. 

Now as it hapt, Lavaine in that tenth year 

Fell ill of some dull fever in the blood. 

And twenty mornings past and still the knight 

Felt the slow poison creeping thro' his veins 

And grew at last indifferent to the end. 

To him maid Gillian pityingly came 

And said with tears : 

" Sure am I that one thing 
Would cure this deadly fever." 

Then Lavaine : 
" Yea, dost thou think it, little maid ? then let 
Me hear." 



The Water Cairiers. 71 

Then she : 

*' A draught of water brought 
From spring beside the tow'r would cure, so pure 
It is and sweet, and Jack and I would bring 
[t gladly an' 'twould please you drink, my lord." 
Fo whom the sick man answer'd wearily, 
Yet thinking she by chance had spoken truth 
As he bethought him of the water's fame : 
" Child, since you wish it, bring, and I will drink." 

Thereat and lightly sprang the maiden down 
The steps that led to outer air, and close 
Beside came Jack, a silver vessel swung 
From one small hand, and so the childish twain 
Went up the hill and quickly reach'd its top. 
Then Jack, with Gill beside, stoopt low and fill'd 
The vessel till the drops did chase themselves 
All down its burnisht sides. This done, they left 
The spring, and holding each the vessel's rim, 
Return'd as they had come, but slower, lest 
By haste the precious draught were spilt and lostc 
Then as in distance smaller grew the tow'r 
Behind, the maid broke out in tender song: 

" Sweet is the sunshine coming after rain; 
And sweet this water unto lips in pain : 
Which is the sweeter 1 that in truth know I. 



72 TJie Water Carriers. 

*' Light, art thou sweet ? then sweeter waters be : 
Light, thou art grateful ; sweet this draught to me. 
O Hght, if death be near him, let me die. 

" Sweet light that fades at eve too soon away, 
Sweet waters springing from the dark to day, 
Which is the sweeter.'* that in truth know I. 

" Pain, follow night, and henceforth from him flee ; 
Thou needs must follow night that waits for thee ; 
But, if thou wilt not, then O let me die." 

Clear with the last line rang her voice, and Jack, 
Who heeded not his ways when Gillian sang, 
Slipt, as the last note ceas'd, upon a piece 
Of sliding stone, and slipping, fell, dragging 
The singer down, and both together roll'd. 
All in a horror of loose stones and dust 
And flying limbs and broken bones and crowns, 
Far down the steep side of that rocky hill. 
So perish'd these two of the fated house 
Of Astolat ; and in the night that follow'd. 
And near a dawning fierce with wind and rain, 
Wherein the sea wag'd battle with the sky 
And both with earth, to final judgment past 
Lavaine. 



The Passing of the Sages. 73 



THE PASSING OF THE SAGES, 

ARGUMENT. 

Three wise vien of Gotham 
Went to sea in a bowl ; 
If the bowl had been stronger 
My story had been longer. 

O IR VALENCE, son of Eglamour, and last 

Of ten tall sons who made their father's name 
A name of all men honor'd ere he past 
From out the kindly winter of his age 
To judgment and the unseen life beyond, 
Mus'd on a mournful midnight o'er the fate 
That left him, almost ere his beard was grown, 
Alone, the last of all his race. For these, 
His stalwart brothers, fell on that great day 
In Lyonnesse, and he, returning home 
From embassage to Breton court, had miss'd 
By passage of a few days the chance of death 
In battle for his lord. So, coming late 
To that lone field of combat by the sea. 
He found nor living friend nor foe, but thick 
As wave-wash'd pebbles on a wintry shore 



74 ■^^'-^ Passing of the Sages. 

Forsaken by a faithless ebbing tide, 

Lay dead his foes and friends. Then past in grief 

Sir Valence to the chapel nigh the field 

Where Bedivere the wounded Arthur bore, 

And all the man within was broken up, 

And like a sudden fountain flow'd his tears, 

And like a bitter wailing were his words. 

" O nevermore," moaned Valence, " on this earth 

Shall I the Table Round or Arthur see, 

For Modred's host have slain the men I lov'd, 

Not sparing one ; and tho' they say our lord. 

King Arthur, cannot die, and tho' he lies 

Not dead upon the field, yet he is gone. 

Yea, he is gone, and all my house are dead. 

And what henceforth is left to me .'' " 

Thus l.e 
In loneliness of spirit moan'd aloud, 
And after past without the chapel down 
The splinter'd crags to that great water's marge 
Beneath, thinking the while, " Here will I die." 
But while he stood on a wave-eaten rock 
That thrust itself from shore so far beyond 
Its fellows that its base was sunk from sight 
Nine fathoms, and there pois'd himself in act 
To leap into the surge, an arm arose 
From out the flashing surface oC the lake, 
" Cloth'd in wliite samite, mystic, wonderful," 



TJie Passing of the Sages. - 75 

And pointed northward, while a great cry shrill'd 
Thro' all the winter silence, warning- him 
Therefrom. And when the echoes of that cry 
Had lost themselves among the barren crags, 
A voice that seem'd to come from east and west 
And north and south at once, with murm'ring fiU'd 
His ears, but clearer grown, resolv'd itself 
To this : 

*' Thy lord. King Arthur, is not dead, 
But past into Avilion valleys where 
There- falleth neither rain nor snow, nor blows 
The gale ; but know, Sir Valence, that the way 
To his blest presence is not by this gate 
That thou wouldst open." 

After this the voice 
Became a murmur once again and sank 
To silence, and the mystic arm slipt down 
Into the bosom of the lake, and night 
Came striding o'er the hills, and all was dark. 

Thus warn'd, yet little comforted, the knight, 
His pathway later lit by waning moon. 
Past upward from the lake, and thence by slow 
Removes to lands of his near Cameliard. 
There he, sole heir to all his father's houoC 
Possesst in these its latest, saddest days, 
A batter'd castle and a ruin'd tow'r, 



y6 TJie Passijig of the Sages. 

And scanty leagues of marsh thro' which there wound 

A sullen river, slipping toward the sea, 

Past languid days of listless idleness 

Among the few retainers of his house, 

And gladly would have died if that might be, 

But fear'd to end his life, remembering 

The voice. So joyless past the time until 

A mournful midnight came, sobbing with wind 

And rain, and while Sir Valence sadly mus'd 

Beside a fitful, slowly sinking fire, 

There stood before him Ban, his seneschal, 

An aged man with thousand-wrinkl'd face, 

Saying a traveller at the castle gate 

Craved food and shelter for the night. 

" Yea, let 
Him in," Sir Valence said, '^ and bring him here. 
And set before us bread and meat and wine." 

Thereat old Ban departed, but return'd 
A moment after with a stranger knight, 
Upon whose bearded face Sir Valence gaz'd 
An instant doubtfully before he spoke 
In way of courtesy, because half deem'd 
He that he knew the man. 

Then said the knight : 
" Thou know'st me not, Sir Valence, but thy sire 
Was known to me, and likewise all thy house 



The Passing of the Sages, jy 

But thee. Sir Sagramour am I, now bent 
On errand northward to the court of Lot, 
But brought by old-time yearning to thy halls 
To welcome seek from son of Eglamour." 

"Thou hast it, sweet Sir Sagramour," then spoke 

Sir Valence courteously, " albeit I 

Have little left to entertain a knight 

Of such fair presence as he may deserve, 

Yet what I have is freely thine ; I pray 

You use it willingly as such." 

Meantime 
The thousand-wrinkl'd man had laid the board, 
And placed thereon a pasty, manchet bread, 
And gleaming flagons of red wine. 

Thereto 
Sir Valence pointed, and the twain sat down, 
And warm'd their hearts with wine, and nurs'd the 

while 
A growing friendship each for other till 
The fire by Ban re-kindl'd wan'd again. 
Then Valence, pushing back his chair, began : 
" I have not seen so glad a time as this 
Since I return'd from Breton court, and I 
Beseech you, sweet Sir Sagramour, to bide 
With me such time as thy affairs allow." 



y8 The Passing of the Sages. 

Then made the other answer, graciously, 
" I find no other pleasure but my host's 
Within my heart, and therefore will I bide 
And gladly, here a little space." 

So he. 
Sir Sagramour, abode, and brighter seem'd 
The castle for his presence, and the heart 
Of Valence lighter grew : and Sagramour 
Perceiving this told merry tales, and oft 
Provok'd his host to mirth : and once the tale 
Was in this fashion told. 

" Ere Arthur came," 
So ran the words of sweet Sir Sagramour, 
" A petty princedom lying east from here, 
Held on its seaward border one small town 
Call'd Gotham, full of strange mad folk, and three 
There were esteem'd as wise as Merlin was 
At court of Camelot : and yet the three 
Were madder than the rest. Now as it chanced 
These Gotham sages all at once were fill'd 
With wild desire to travel on the sea 
Before their doors, and many plans they laid 
To bring to pass fulfilment of desire ; 
But all were fruitless, till one happy day 
The maddest of the three within his brain 
Conceiv'd the fancy of a giant bowl 



The Passing of the Sages. 79 

Of wood which might be sent upon the sea, 

Whilst they within, all jubilant, might ride. 

So half the men in Gotham set at work 

To make the bowl ; and when 'twas done and launch'd, 

The sages, sitting on the bowl's sharp edge, 

Their voices lifted high in gleeful song. 

" * O sun, that shinest sweetest on the wise, 
O moon, that fiingst a veil across our eyes. 
Shine softly : now our bowl hath toucht the sea. 

" ' O poppies red that lull us quick to sleep, 
O poppies red that drowsy secrets keep, 
Blow softly ; twice our bowl hath dipt the sea. 

" * O owls, that carol in the fearsome dark, 
O owls, that carol sweeter than the lark, 
Sing softly : twice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' 

" So sang the Gotham wise men, while the bowl 
Upon an ebbing tide mov'd from the shore. 
And as their figures blurr'd with distance, sang 
Again, and fainter both the tune and words. 

" ' O sea-bowl, tossing on the watery crest, 
O sea-bowl, with three sages in thy breast, 
Toss gently, thrice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' 



8o The Passing of the Sages. 

"Thereafter," said Sir Sagramour, "there came 

A fierce, wild gale from out the north," — then paus'd 

As one whose tale is done. 

" What then ? " here spoke 
The host, impatient of the pause. 

Whereat 
The other : 

" Longer far had been my tale 
If Gotham's giant bowl had stronger been. 
But come, we waste the hours ; I pray you go 
With me to Orkney. In a month we will 
Return." 



Constanthis and Helena. 8 1 



CONSTANTIUS AND HELENA. 

ARGUMENT. 

" Old King- Cole 

Was a merry old soul, 
A nd a merry old sotil was lie .* 

He called for his pipe 

A nd lie called /or his bcnvl, 
A nd Jie called for his fiddlers three ^ 

L^ING COILUS — the first of Britain's kings 

Who made the legions sent from overseas 
By Rome, with Ccesar's eagles at their head, 
Pause in their northward marching from the coast' 
Upon a stormful night in April forced 
His way, with all his warriors at his back, 
(In number as the needles of the pine, 
And like the pine in sinewy strength and height,) 
Past Roman guards and sentinels o'erthrown 
And slain, to where the sacred eagles blaz'd, 
In fitful glare of torch and beacon ray, 
Within the town Camelodunum call'd, 
High on the hill that overlooks the Colne. 
So all that stormful night the Roman blood 
Incarnadined the Colne, and all the slopes 



82 Constantms and Helena, 

Were strewn with carnage ; and the dawning came 
And shot red rays athwart the crimson pools, 
And o'er the heaps of Roman dead, and o'er 
The joyous horde of Cole victorious, 
And red was all the land. 

Thus broke the king 
The power of distant Rome, or so it seem'd ; 
And merrily did Coilus rebuild 
The city, calling to his aid the might 
Of Bleys, the great magician, he who made 
Brandagoras of Latangor his slave 
A twelvemonth's space because of insult done 
Some ancient shrine ; and on the heights arose 
Camelodunum fairer than before, 
A mighty city, girdl'd round with walls 
That mounted skyward and yet fail'd to hide 
The tow'rs and spires that lost themselves in air. 
There, in the carv'd stone palace built by Bleys, 
King Coilus liv'd merrily and well : 
And with him Helena, his child, the pride 
And chief delight of Coilus, and fair 
As maid may be on this our earth and seem 
In any wise as one of earth ; and oft 
The merry king, regarding her, was mute 
With memories of one who look'd like her 
Some twenty changeful changing seasons back, — 
The maiden's mother, and the only child 



Constarttius and Helena. 83 

Of Urien of Wales. 

Now while the king 
Past merry days surrounded by his lords, 
And lov'd by all, from Helena his child 
To poorest beggar that e'er crav'd an alms, 
Far overseas the legions gather'd strength, 
And passing with their eagles o'er the strait 
That lay between the chalk-white cliifs and Gaul, 
Halted before Camelodunum's walls, 
And strove, but vainly, 'gainst the might of Cole, 
As strives some ardent climber some high cliff 
To scale that beetles o'er its base, or waves 
That fain would overleap the same sheer height, 
And striving ever, ever fail. 

Nathless, 
Undaunted as the surge, Constantius, 
The Roman leader, lay before the walls 
With all the flower of Rome within his camp. 
Till thrice the summer into autumn past, 
And thrice the dead leaves redden'd all the Colne, 
And thrice the bitter winds of winter rav'd, 
And thrice the lark became " a sightless song." 
But when the third springtide was wellnigh past, 
Constantius, despairing of success, 
Was mov'd to raise the siege, since all his art 
Avail'd him not before the walls uprear'd 



84 Constantius and Helena. 

By Bleys. Yet ere his thought past into act, 

It chanced that he one morning heard a voice 

Of mellow sweetness falling through the air, 

And looking up, he saw fair Helena 

Upon the walls, and listening, he heard 

The words she sang, and hearing, straightway fell 

In longing for the maid, and seeing, blest 

The gods who granted him so fair a sight. 

But she upon the walls sang on as one 

Who sings for joy of heart, not heeding him, 

Or seeming not to heed Constantius, 

Who, far below, listen'd and look'd and lov'd. 

" A star, but one, one only star saw I, 

A star, one star, far through the frosty air, 

One star, a star that lighten'd all my sky, 

One star, my star, that sparkl'd past compare, — 

I reck'd not of the cold, the star was there. 

*' One star, a star that seem'd far off, yet nigh, 
One star, one star with rays that shimmer'd fair, 
No star but one, none other star saw I. 
One star, my star ; a star that cannot die, — 
They miss who seek it if the moon be there." 

" My star, one star, none other star for me," 
Constantius said within himself whenas 



Constaiitius a7id Helena. 85 

The song was ended and the singer gone 
From off the walls, and, ere the sun had paus'd 
In high mid-heaven, and the noontide hour 
Was hammer'd out from tower and spire, the King, 
Within the carven palace built by Bleys, 
Was told a messenger from Roman camp 
Crav'd speedy hearing for his message brought. 
Bluster'd King Cole : 

" Yea, let him in : I fain 
Would know what he, my foe, Constantius, 
Would say to me by churl of his." 

Low bow'd 
The Roman, entering, at the feet of Cole, 
To whom that other spake through frosty beard, 
" Thou hast a message : speak, and let me hear." 
Thereat the messenger : 

" O Coilus ! 
Constantius knows thee great, believes thee wise 
Beyond the measure of all other men. 
And gladly would exchange the name of foe 
With thee for that of friend ; and therefore he. 
My master, offers peace, — such peace as broods 
O'er lands where plenteous content is lord. 
And one condition only doth this peace 
Stand fast upon : that he may have to wife 
The princess Helena." 



86 Constantiiis and Helena. 

He ceas'd and bow'd 
Once more, while Coilus revolv'd in thought 
The message of Constantius, inclin'd 
The more to grant the Roman leader's prayer, 
Since he was much awearied of the siege 
Which kept him in Camelodunum pent. 
So, turning to the lords about him, spake : 
" You heard this Roman : what say you, my lords ? 
But staying not for answer, bade one call 
His daughter Helena, who straightway came. 
To her the King made known the Roman's wish, 
And added, " Now what says my Helena 
Unto the suit of brave Constantius ? " 

Now it had chanced that Helen, while she sang. 
Had with a sidelong azure-lidded eye 
Beheld the Roman leader far below, 
Yet not so far but she might see his gaze 
Rapt upon her, and seeing lov'd in turn. 
Therefore when Cole, the merry, question'd her 
What should be said, she rais'd an innocent face 
And murmur'd: 

" Surely peace is sweet to have, 
My father : who am I to bar the door 
Against it, and prolong the doleful siege ? " 

So peace was made, and Helena was wed 



Constajititis and Helena. 8/ 

Unto Constantius, and all the bells 

Of great Camelodunum rang, and Cole, 

The merry, at the marriage call'd for pipes 

And bowl, and flowing bowl and pipes, and while 

The pipers drank great draughts from out the bowl, 

Caird loudly for his fiddlers three. 



3. ilak of ®u0£an|i. 



A n Old- World tale. Who reads perchance 

May deem it dull or idly told^ 
Preferring latter-day roiiiance 

Where well trained hearts their loves unfold. 



A Tale of Ttiscafiy. 91 



A TALE OF TUSCANY. 

Tuscany, land of fierce hates and wild loves and of 
limitless passions, 

Tuscany, home of Petrarca and Dante and lively 
Boccaccio, 

Tuscany, home of the Angelic Painter revered through- 
out Europe, 
j Thou art the scene of this story : in thee all its actors 

lie buried. 

1 



Near to a stream that escaped from Fiesole's heights 

and that wandered 
Down through vast forests of chestnut and unto the 

plain that stretched eastward. 
Where it meandered at will until lost in the turbulent 

Arno, 
Stood in the days when the land was ruled o'er by the 

mighty Lorenzo, 
Stood, and still stands, although now but a ruin, four 

centuries later, 



92 A Talc of Tuscany. 

Villa Albert!, the home of a youthful and passionate 
noble 

Known far and wide for his pitiless temper that recked 
not of mercy. 

Cosmo Alberti his name, and for wife he had taken 
Bianca, 

One of the house of Bordoni and daughter of Luigi 
Bordoni 

Many times chosen a prior of merchants of silk in 
Firenze. 

Fair was the face of the maid and her voice was as 
sweet as the nightingale's 

Heard in mid-May when the forest rejoices in newly- 
won verdure. 

Gracious her manner to all and so great was the charm 
of her presence 

That at the banquets the wealth and the pride of 
Firenze attended 

None of its maidens were paid so much honor as 
gentle Bianca. 

Simple and fresh was her spirit despite all the praise 
she excited 

Equal in measure from amorous youth and from grey- 
headed statesmen. 

Nor was the fame of her beauty and sweetness con- 
fined to Firenze ; 

Roman ambassadors when they returned to the City 
Eternal 



A Tale of Tuscany. 93 

E 

Spoke of it freely, while light-hearted gallants of Pisa 

and Lucca, 

Passing a season in Tuscany's proudest of cities, 
Firenze, 

Spread on returning the praise of the beautiful Floren- 
tine maiden. 



But, as it chanced, unto Cosmo Alberti, her name was 

a strange one 
Even when Tuscany rang with her manifold virtues 
I and graces. 



For from his villa he seldom went forth to the city, 
preferring 

Either to follow his own lawless will in his wide-spread 
dominion. 

Or to engage in some feud with a neighbor and, com- 
ing off victor, 

Harry his rival to death and then seize upon all his 
possessions. 

Yet unto him at last tidings of Bordoni's daughter 
were wafted. 

And, in a moment when 'customed delights seemed to 
pall on his spirit, 

Thoughts of Bianca Bordoni came into his mind and 
he wondered 

What she was like and if all that was said of her pic- 
tured her truly. 



94 A Tale of Tuscany. 

With Cosmo Albert! to think was to act, and thus 
happed it Firenze 

Saw him one day in her streets, unto which he had 
long been a stranger, 

Saw him and greeted him kindly, as Florentine pru- 
dence suggested ; 

Nor was it long before he of the Villa Alberti was 
granted 

Sight of the maiden the fame of whose charms had 
lured him from his castle. 

Pietro Brignoli, whose daughter a noble young Pisar 

had wedded. 
Gave on the day of the bridal a banquet to which were 

invited 
All of the rank and the wealth of Firenze and likewise 

were summoned 
Strangers of rank from without, and amongst these was 

Cosmo Alberti. 
Handsome was he in his costume well-fitting his station 

and figure. 
Marked among men would he be anywhere, and full 

many a maiden 
Gazing upon him felt something of love stir within her 

for Cosmo, 
Cosmo, whose eyes were for one, and one only, and 

that one Bianca. 



w. 



A Tale of Tuscany. 95 

Singing was she when he saw her, a song that was made 

for the bridal. 
Sweet were the words of the song, for sweet love was 

the theme of the writer, 
Guido Donati his name, and the words of his song 

were on this wise : 



What is the dearest of treasures ? 
What is the sweetest of pleasures ? 
Bliss that o'errunneth all measures ? 

Love is its name. It is Love ! 

Sweet is the bliss of pursuing, 
Dear is the joy of the wooing ; 
Happiness lies in subduing 

Hearts that are strangers to Love, 



■^ Whispered its vows are and tender; 

Virtue its strongest defender ; 
p Every true heart longs to render 

Homage and honors to Love. 



Ar 



Ended the music, arose a great clamor of eloquent 

voices 
Praising the song and the singer and loudest was 

Cosmo Alberti's. 



96 A Tale of Tuscany. I 

Ne'er had he known until now these emotions that i 

filled him with longing; ( 

Never till now had he felt what it was to love purely 

and nobly. 
Love for the moment transformed his rough nature to 

chivalrous manhood, ^ 

Lent a new grace to his manner and softened the ring 

of his lausfhter. 
Scarce would the servants of Villa Alberti have known) 

their young master 
Could they have seen him that evening at Messer 

Pietro Brignoli's. ^ 

After the banquet the bridegroom and bride led thd 

{ 1 
dancing together, \j 

And in their steps followed gladly the Florentin i 

maidens and gallants, 
Crossing, recrossing, and turning wherever the meas \ 

ure demanded, j 

Touching the tips of the fingers and bowing at ever '^ 

turning. ,! 

Not the least graceful was Cosmo Alberti, who, joining 

the dancers, 
Joyfully found himself frequently facing Bianca 

Bordoni, 
Who for her part was well-pleased when she noted the 

handsome Alberti 



I 



I A Tale of Ttiscany. 97 

ying her every movement and eagerly craving her 

favor. 
!,ong was the dance but it ended at length and the 

dancers departed, 
rosmo amongst them, his thoughts full of Bordoni's 
1 \ beautiful daughter, 

Wljiom he determined to gain, and he therefore re- 
! ; mained in Firenze 
Weiek after week, and so constant was he in attending 

all banquets 
Whereto Bianca was bidden that every one saw his 

devotion. 
" See what a tamer is Love," said the gossips in strada 

and loggia ; 
"Who would have dreamed that the savage young 

boar of the Villa Alberti 
Would have forsaken his sports and his fighting for 

love of a maiden." 
Not unobserved by Bordoni the evident purpose of 

Cosmo, 
Purpose that had for its object the gaining the love of 

his daughter, 
I And not ill-pleased was the father, who viewed young 

Alberti with favor. 
As for Bianca herself she but faintly at this time re- 
membered 
,)Tales she had heard of his deeds and his temper so 

cruel, 



:'ni,l 



98 A Tale of Tuscany. 

For when his face was before her they seemed like th 

veriest fancies 
Born of the envy of those not so handsome and darinu 

as Cosmo. 1 

So as the summer departed and Tuscany's autumn del 

scending / 

Touched with the finger of fire all the trees in u\i 

plain of the Arno, 
Cosmo, not doubting Bianca's affection, demanded' of 

Luigi 
Hand of the maiden in marriage, whereat old Bordo 

concealing 
Back of his calmness of face all the joy that he felt, 

for a moment 
Seemed not to favor distinctly the suit of the ardent 

young Cosmo, 
But as if moved by the arguments earnestly urged by 

the other, 
Yielded at last, as doth one overborne, and consented. 

Then gladly 
Hastened the passionate Cosmo to gentle Bianca await- 
ing 
News of her lover's success and as they sat together in 

silence. 
Fuller of meaning than words could be ever, Luig 

Bordoni, 
Dignified, portly and handsome in garments of richest 

black velvet, 1 



J 



A Tale of Tuscany. 99 

;ame where they sat and spoke gravely of life and its 

manifold duties, 
poke of the pain at his heart that would follow the 

loss of Bianca, 
poke of the rumors that reached him of Cosmo's un- 
disciplined temper, 
Jrged the young noble to govern his household and 

people with kindness, 
Said a few words of the happiness marriage had brought 

to his own life, 
?Ioped for as much in their future, and left them at 
length with his blessing. 

Mxed was the bridal for April, and all through the winter 

young Cosmo 
Busied himself with restoring! a win 2: of the Villa Al- 

berti, 
bearing a tower and extending the loggia and planning 

out gardens. 
Gardens which now are a wildwood, yet peopled with 

moss-covered statues, 
[Showing, however, though armless and shattered, the 
I lines of the beauty 
Fixed there of old by the wonderful skill of some lov'.g- 

vanished sculptor. 
So passed the winter with Cosmo, who, full of his pla'.is 



100 A Tale of Tuscany. 






Found little time for pursuing old feuds with his neigl 

bors, who therefore 
Dwelt for the winter in peace and most fervently thankej 

the occasion. 
Easter came early in April that season but not till iIt, 

springtide 
Filled the Val d'Arno with tremulous greenness anc 

starred it with blossoms, 
While on Fiesole's heights waved the newly-won sprays 

of the chestnut, 
Sprays through which flickered the sunshine on pink- 
flushing buds of the laurel. 
Nor was the brightness of Tuscany's springtime confinec 

to the country, 
Strada, piazza and loggia in every part of Firenze 
Brimmed and ran over with flowers, and at Easter thei^ 

delicate fragrance \ 

Conquered at mass and at vespers the odors of myrrlr 

and frankincense 
Stealing from censers of brass swung by thurifers at 

the hiMi altars. 
Scarcely had Holy Week passed when the rigors of! 

Lent were forgotten. 
Save by the monks in their cells and the nuns in iheit, 

cloisters, ji 

For in the Easter week happened the wedding- at Cp*:* 



A Tale of Tuscany. lOl 

'.'Vedding long talked of before by the youth and the 
maids of Firenze, 

'bridal long talked of thereafter because of its wonder- 
ful splendor. 

^N^ot for a decade at least had been seen in the City of 
Flowers 

Marriage attended with jubilant mirth and with pomp 
like to this one. 

'Guests from Siena and Lucca and Pisa and Rome the 

Eternal, 
]' . . . 

jBrilliant in silks and in velvets and flashing with gold 

' chains and jewels, 

Sat at the banquet that followed the solemn high mass 

) at the Duomo, 

pat beside Florentine nobles as richly arrayed, and 

among them 
,Grey-bearded priors of arts and stout matrons who 

once had been shapely, 
i Maidens as stately as lilies and children half-dazed 

iwith the splendor, 
. Mingled in friendliness born of the joy that abounds at 
a bridal. 
Many the healths that were drunk in behalf of the 

newly-wed couple ; 
Many the wishes expressed for their happiness and to 

these Cosmo 
Gracefully worded his thanks, and, the banquet once 
ended, the dancins: 



I02 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Followed il swiftly, but even more rapidly twinkled to 

music 
Feet of the dancers in rhythmical measures, and lastly 

succeeded 
Chorus of youths and of maidens with clear ringing 

voices all singing, 
(Melody wondrous and sweet,) a fair marriage song writ 

for the bridal : 



When in the springtime a soft wind arises 
Out of the south land and sweetly surprises 
Fair folded buds from their sleep into roses, 
Breathes on the lily till rathe it uncloses, 
Hearts that are saddest lose some of their sorrow, 
Hearts that are lightest a keener joy borrow, 
When in the springtime a south wind arises 
And in its bounty all fair gifts comprises. 

When in the springtime two hearts are united, 
Pleasure is crowned and dull pain is affrighted. 
Love lights the path where the blissful ones wander 
Thinking no evil and growing yet fonder. 
Never such rapture by mortals is tasted 
As clings to the days when ere April is wasted, 
Pain being past and all jealousy blighted, 
Hearts in the dearest of bonds are united. 



A Tale of Tuscany, 103 

So the long waiting was over and these two, Bianca 
and Cosmo, 

Entered upon that new hfe which to some is a quickly 
sped pleasure 

Vanished as soon as the moon of the bridal is over and 
nothing 

Left for the lifetime which follows but weariness, hatred 
and loathing, 

But which for others is full of the joy that endureth for 
all time, 

Joy that is sister to peace and abideth forever in calm- 
ness. 

How it would be with these two was the wonder of 
half of Firenze 

Holding in mind the reports of his pitiless temper 
aforetime. 

Somewhat disturbed in his spirit was ancient Luigi 
Bordoni 

Sitting alone in his palace bereft of Bianca and doubt- 
ing 

Whether ambition were safest to follow when wedding 
a daughter 

Tender and loving as his was, and whether young Cosmo 
Albert! 

Loved her enough to subdue for her sake all his out- 
bursts of passion. 

Often and often he rode to the gates of the Villa Alberti, 



I04 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Entered and found in the gardens or sitting at ease in 

the loggia 
Happiness ever and blissful content with Bianca and 

Cosmo. 
Welcome he never found lacking and so as the days 

journeyed onward 
Fainter his doubtings became and at last past away 

altogether 
Utterly routed and slain by the radiant presence of 

gladness. 

Now in these halcyon days the great happiness com- 
passing these two 

Spread its white wings over all who owed service to 
Cosmo. 

Wholly transformed seemed the man through his love 
for the gentle Bianca. 

It was enough for him now that she pleaded for any re- 
tainer, 

Seeking for justice to all, and the noble who once had 
sought counsel 

Only from whim of the moment or spurring of sudden- 
moved passion. 

Now was renowned throughout spacious Val d'Arna 
for merciful dealing. 

Many the banquets and feastings at Villa Albert! that 
summer. 



A Tale of Tuscany. 105 

Often the peasant on lands of Albert! was roused from 
his slumbers 

Nigh to the hour when the pale rose of dawn in the 
east faintly quickens, 

Hearing the rolling of wheels and the querulous neigh- 
ing of horses 

Speeding with jubilant revelers back to their homes in 
Firenze. 

All who could add to the joy of the moment were wel- 
comed by Cosmo. 

So at the Villa Alberti were gathered in friendly 
conjunction 

Poets, musicians and artists of differing orders of merit, 

Nobles and sages and men who were keen at a jest or 
a satire. 

There might be seen the fair matrons and maids of the 
City of Florence, 

Cassock of priest, or the purple-hued robe of the digni- 
fied prelate, 

Merchants returned from a visit to Paris or far-distant 
London, 

Courtiers from France or ambassadors sent from some 
German dominion. 

Many the faiths of the guests but a harmony never was 
lacking, 

For at these meetings Bianchi and Neri forgot for the 
moment 



io6 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Matters at issue between them, and even the Ghibel- 

line faction 
Here at the Villa Alberti held truce with the Guelplis 

their opponents, 
Glad it w^ould seem for an interval sacred to peace 

and good feeling. 

When the fierce heats of the summer were over and 

Tuscany's autumn 
Once more returning had purpled the vineyards and 

yellowed the cornfields. 
Veiled with a haze the far peaks of Carrara and 

breathed forth at evening 
Hints, though but faint ones as yet, of the oncoming 

chillier weather, 
Luigi Bordoni one morning rode forth to his daughter 

Bianca's, 
Not, as his wont was, alone, but companioned upon this 

occasion 
By a fair youth, the last left of the sons of a dearly- 
loved brother. 
Nearly two years had he been at Ferrara on business 

of Luigi's, 
But it was ended at last and the youth had returned to 

Firenze 
Only that morning brimful of rejoicing at seeing his 

kindred. 



A Tale of Tuscany. 107 

Joyous the meeting had been 'twixt the uncle and well- 
beloved nephew, 
And in reply to his questionings after Bianca, his 

cousin, 
Messer Bordoni was leading the youth to the Villa 

Alberti. 
Scarce twenty-one was Franceso Bordoni when leaving 

Firenze ; 
Lightly at that time the down on his upper lip lay like 

a shadow, 
But, in his absence had lengthened and darkened till 

now on returning 
Straight as a dart a full finger's length sideways it 

slenderly pointed, 
Under it gleamed the white teeth that his clear ringing 

laughter showed often, 
And "neath the forehead above it two dark eyes looked 

honestly outward, 
Eyes that the maids of Ferrara had many times loved 

to feel on them. 
Slenderly built was the youth but withal of an elegant 

figure. 
Habited richly in garments befitting his years and his 

station. 
Crimson and white was his doublet and likewise his 

close-fitting long hose 
Crimson of hue, and a mantle that carelessly hung from 

his shoulder 



io8 A Tale of Tuscany. 

White, ^Yith a lining of crimson, showed also the colors 

he favored. 
Crimson moreover the cap that he \vore and that 

poised as if blown there 
Crowning the grace that yet needed no help of costume 

to display it. 
Over his doublet there hung a gold chain wrought by 

skill of Cellini, 
And at his side was a sword which the same Benvenuto 

Cellini, 
Seized with a master's own fancy, enriched with a 

wonderful scabbard 
Where was depicted the sorrowful story of her of 

Rimini. 
Goodly in raiment and person alike was the youthful 

Franceso, 
And as he journeyed that morning along with his 

uncle, Luigi 
Said to himself that the youth was a joy to the house 

of Bordoni. 

Noon was the hour when the uncle and nephew reached 

Villa Albert! ; 
Noon, and the shadows that lay on the greensward 

were dwarfed and misshapen ; 
Noon, and the breezes of morning had died quite away 

into stillness; 



A Talc of Tils cany. 1 09 

Noon, and the birds were asleep and the musical plash 

of the fountains 
Joyously leaping aloft in the sunshine and falling back 

ever 
Scarce broke the slumberous silence that brooded o'er 

all like a blessing. 
" Ah, what a haven of peace ! " said Franceso aloud to 

his uncle, 
" Truly a fitting abode for my beautiful cousin Bianca." 
Hardly the sentence was uttered when she whom he 

spoke of came forward 
Beaming with joy at beholding her father and long- 
absent cousin. 
" Surely, Franceso, your stay in Ferrara has wondrously 

changed you. 
For when you left us you seemed like a boy and to-day 

I behold you 
Bearing the honors of manhood like any young Floren- 
tine gallant." 
Smiling she spoke and the youth in confusion bowed 

lowly before her, 
Paused for a moment and then answered g?iyly, " A^y 

cousin Bianca, 
Time has been busy with you and has changed from a 

girl to a woman 
Her Vv'hom I left in the care of the vigilant Sisters of 

Joseph, 



1 10 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Learning from them to embroider and also the curing 

of roseleaves." 
More had he said, but the master of Villa Alberti ap- 
proaching 
Greeted the newcomers warmly and led the wayiiUo 

the Villa. 
There for a time they conversed with each other of 

various matters, 
Whether the eloquent Savonarola would preach at the 

Duomo 
After the autumn was over and Advent had opened the 

winter. 
Whether the turbulent Arrabbiati would dare to molest 

him, 
Whether the harvests throughout the Val d' Arno v.ere 

promising finely, 
Whether the air of Firenze was purer than that of 

Ferrara. 
So passed the morning away until Cosmo, addressing 

Bianca, 
Said in his courtliest manner, "Bianca, your cousin 

Franceso, 
If he has rested as long as he wishes, might care to 

examine 
Under your guidance the gardens, or possibly also the 

frescos 
Painted last spring, my Bianca, in honor of you and our 

bridal. 



A Talc of Tuscany. in 

Go with him therefore, I pray you, and I and our ex- 
cellent father 

Later will join you, perhajDS in the gardens or else in 
the loggia." 

Ended his sentence, the speaker arose and passed out 
with Luigi 

Full of some plan for adorning the Villa which needed 
explaining, 

And at an opposite portal Bianca went forth with her 
cousin. 

Much had Franceso to speak of concerning the years 
of his absence ; 

Much had Bianca to tell him of Cosmo and how he 
adored her. 

Almost like brother and sister the cousins had been in 
their childhood, 

Sharing their joys and their sorrows and each one ad- 
miring the other. 

Now as they loitered in arbor and alley in innocent 
converse, 

Confidence, long interrupted by absence, returned, and 
the friendship 

Severed by time reunited and freely they spoke to each 
other ; 

He of the maiden he loved at Ferrara with ardent de- 
votion, 

How he would count himself happy if only Bianca 
might see her, 



112 A Tale of Tiiscany. 

For he was sure she would think the maid wondrously 
lovely. 

When he had ended she told of her meeting with 
Cosmo last summer, 

How she had loved from the first this young lord whom 
Pietro Brignoli 

Summoned with others to dance and to feast at the 
fete of his daughter. 

How she had feared while she loved him, recalling the 
tales that were told her. 

Tales that proclaimed him as cruel, and wholly un- 
mindful of kindness. 

But unto her he was gentle and tender, and courteous 
ever. 

Since they were wedded his love had not lost in the 
least its deep fervor. 

And his dependents united, she added, in praising their 
master. 

" Happier woman than I am most surely is none in 
Firenze," 

Gleefully ended Bianca her story of Cosmo's devo- 
tion. 

Thus as it happened the youthful and handsome Fran- 
ceso Bordoni, 

Once more abiding with Luigi his uncle, in Casa Bor- 
doni, 



A Tale of Tuscany. 113 

Welcome most cordial received from his cousin the 

wife of Alberti, 
Welcome in which Cosmo joined with the zeal of 

impetuous natures. 
Frequent the journeys he made from Firenze to Villa 

Alberti, 
For as the autumn departed the beautiful maid of 

Ferrara, 
Wholly unknown to herself, was supplanted by one in 

Firenze, 
Wherefore Franceso the fickle had much to impart to 

his cousin 
Of the new rapture he fervently vowed should endure 

for a lifetime. 
Smilingly listened Bianca and wholly refrained from 

reproaching, 
Feeling quite sure that his heart was untouched by the 

one or the other ; 
Hoping moreover in time to divert his uncertain affec- 
tions 
Into a steadier channel and fix them on one of her own 

friends, 
Giulia Donati, the well-beloved child of a Florentine 

noble. 
So the youth went and returned at his pleasure, and 

sober-paced autumn 
Glided unseen into winter, so mild was the weather, 

and Cosmo 



114 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Welcomed him always as one might a brother and 

dreamed of no evil. 
So might it ever have been but for one who had noted 

Franceso 
Coming and going at will and moreover seen oft with 

Bianca. 
Into the brain of Battista Marchesi, a friend of Al- 

berti's, 
Entered suspicion at once as a guest and found ample 

employment, 
When he beheld the young nephew of ancient Luigi 

Bordoni 
Gladly received by Bianca, against whom he cherished 

resentment 
Dating from days when he sued as a lover and won not 

her favor. 
Long had he sighed for revenge and the moment for 

this seemed approaching. 
Cautious, however, was he, and he waited some time 

before speaking, 
But when December was come and Battista was hunt- 
ing with Cosmo, 
Far from Firenze on slopes of the Apennine Alps near 

Carrara, 
Chance as it seemed led their talk to Bianca and Villa 

Alberti. 
" Ah, 'tis a week since I left my Bianca ! " said Cosmo, 

" and lonely 



A Tale of Tuscany, 115 

Truly I know she will be, so to-morrow must find me 

returning." 
" Lonely, good Cosmo ? " then answered him crafty 

Marchesi, " but surely 
That is your vanity speaking. Bianca can very well 

spare you. 
Just for a little at least, for what wife will not tire of 

her husband 
Having him constantly by her and hearing his words of 

devotion. 
Then she has with her the beautiful Giulia Donati and 

likewise 
Paola Lippi and other fair maids of Firenze and 

doubtless 
Handsome Franceso Bordoni is there at the Villa this 

moment 
Telling some wonderful tale or exciting their mirth by 

his jesting. 
O, she is doing quite well in your absence without you, 

good Cosmo. 
Better remain while the hunting is good than to think 

of returning. 
She is quite safe in the care of her friends and her 

cousin Franceso." 
Loudly laughed Cosmo when subtle Battista had fin- 
ished, and answered : 
" Little you know of Bianca's affection for me, good 

Battista ; 



Ii6 A Tale of Tiiscany. 

She is not like many wives who rejoice when their hus- 
bands are absent ; 
Ever her thoughts are of me and I surely must see her 

to-morrow." 
" Take your own course, my dear friend," said Battista, 

in answer, " and doubtless 
You are quite right and Bianca, your wife, in your 

absence is lonely. 
Pardon me, Cosmo, if I in a moment of jesting spoke 

lightly 
Of the affection a wife like Bianca must feel for her 

husband. 
Let it forever be buried and now let us speak of Fran- 

ceso ; 
Surely a more pleasant subject is he with his easy good- 
nature. 
How half the maids in Firenze adore him, and yet 'tis 

no wonder ; 
Who might not conquer and win the most obdurate 

heart in the city 
Had he the graces of person and eloquent tongue of 

Franceso. 
Even the matrons regard him with pleasure and almost 

affection. 
Almost, said I, nay 'tis rumored that one or two 

matrons whose husbands 
Absent just now are from home, seem disposed to the 

granting of favors 



A Tale of Tuscany. 117 

Unto Franceso, the handsome, which doubtless the 

youth has accepted, 
Being adept in affairs of the kind, if I do not mistake 

him. 
Ah, what it is to be handsome and young and thus 

favored of women ! " 
Thus unto Cosmo spoke wily Marchesi and failed not 

to notice 
Over the brow of the friend at his side a dark shadow 

was creeping ; 
Noticed and inly rejoiced and continued his talk of 

Franceso, 
Praising the youth as before and enlarging upon his 

attractions. 
Then as a close to his words very craftily added, " My 

Cosmo, 
You should know best and no doubt you are right in 

returning to-morrow. 
Truly so tender and loving a wife as is yours must be 

lonely. 
Go if you will, as for me I will hunt by myself awhile 

longer." 
Little said Cosmo the rest of that day to his friend and 

companion. 
Dark was his brow as the clouds that drive over the 

sky in a tempest ; 
Heavy his heart with the weight of suspicion that sud- 
denly lodged there ; 



Ii8 A Tale of Tuscany. 

So on the morrow he turned his face eastward and 

reached home at nightfall. 
Peaceful and quiet the short day had passed for Bianca 

Albert! 
Busied with womanly cares and with no one at hand 

to distract her. 
Paola Lippi with Giulia had ere this returned to 

Firenze, 
And on that day quite alone had she been till Fran- 

ceso at sunset 
Came to the Villa to beg her assistance in gaining the 

favor 
Of his last love, the adorable, wonderful Giulia Donati. 
Glad was Bianca to find where his wishes now pointed 

and promised 
All in her power to incline to his suit the dear friend 

of her girlhood. 
Loud was the youth in his thanks as they sat in the 

loggia together 
While the bright moonlight streamed over their faces 

and one in the garden 
Watched them with wrath in his heart and a tremulous 

hand on his dagger. 

So passed an hour, and Franceso departing sped 

down to the garden 
Trusting to find at the entrance his charger awaiting 

its master. 



A Tale of Tuscany. 119 

Crimson and white was his garb as of old, and his cap 

with its tassel 
Lightly was tossed on a head that was full of a lover's 

brig'at fancies. 
Singing i. song was the youth as he passed down the 

garden, and Cosmo, 
Wholly unheeded by him, came behind with his dagger 

and ended 
With but one thrust the sweet song and the harmless 

younc- life of the singer. 
Crimson and white were the colors Franceso in life 

had rrost favored ; 
Crimson and white in his death lay the blithesome 

Franceso Bordoni. 

Long had lain dormant the turbulent passions of 

Cosmo Alberti ; 
Dormant and harmless they seemed until roused by the 

wily Battista. 
Fiercer than ever the tempest that now raged un- 

checrced in his bosom, 
Tempest awakened at first by the devilish craft of 

Mar:hesi, 
Tempest now roused to full height when before him 

lay lifeless Franceso. 
Dragging Bordoni away from the path he strode up to 

the Villa, 



I20 A Tale of Tusca?iy. 

Entered and meeting his most trusted servant, Arnoldo 

Sacchetti, 
Told him in brief what had chanced and then charged 

him to keep the dread secret, 
Bidding him also to safely conceal the dead form of 

Franceso ; 
Then with a smile on his lips straightway passed to the 

rooms of Bianca. 
Glad was Bianca when Cosmo she saw and mbst tender 

her welcome, 
Tender moreover was he and the fire that had now 

blazed so hotly, 
Seemed to have sunk into ashes so loving and gentle 

his manner. 
Doubted he then for a moment, so genuine seemed her 

affection, 
Whether the deed were well done that had ended the 

life of Franceso, 
Till there returned the suspicions Marches! in him had 

implanted. 
But to Bianca his look at that time betrayed nothing 

but gladness 
And in her joy at his coming no mention she made of 

Franceso \ 

Even when days past away and no more was he seen 

at the Villa. 
Absent just then from Firenze was Luigi Bordoni, his 

uncle, 



A Tale of Tuscany. I2I 

So that the youth was not missed from the city except 

by companions 
Young like himself, and who fancied him absent on 

some lover's journey. 
Troubled in spirit was Cosmo, perceiving no trace in 

Bianca 
Of the dismay he had looked for when day after day 

brought no lover, 
Troubled in spirit, yet not the less fixed in his direful 

purpose, 
Purpose which waited in silence the moment most fit 

for disclosing. 
More than a week past away when one morning 

Bianca said lightly : 
" What can have chanced to Franceso 1 He seems to 

have left us entirely. 
When you were absent, my Cosmo, he came every day 

to the Villa. 
That was when Giulia Donati was here, whom he loves 

beyond measure." 
" He will be with us this even at supper," said Cosmo 

in answer, 
" Full of a lover's excuses, no doubt, to account for his 

absence." 

Even was come and together they past to the hall of 
the banquet, 



122 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Where on the table a cover was laid for the coming 

Franceso. 
" Shall we not drink to the health of your amorous 

cousin, Bianca, 
Ere he arrives at the Villa ? " and gladly Bianca 

assented. 
Then at a sign from his master Arnoldo Sacchetti 

brought forward 
Rarest of wines and moreover a silver-rimmed skull 

for a goblet. 
This to Bianca he gave and Alberti said gently, 

" Bianca, 
It is a fancy of mine you should drink from that goblet 

this evening. 
Not the most pleasant of fancies, 'tis true, but you will 

not refuse me ? " 
Somewhat reluctant at first, but assured by the words of 

her husband. 
Quickly she drank and Arnoldo Sacchetti announced 

at that moment, 
" Messer Franceso Bordoni," and opened the doors of 

a closet. 
There with a mantle of crimson and white hanging 

loose from the shoulder 
Stood a grim skeleton awful and white in the down- 
streaming lamplight. 
Frozen with horror Bianca stared rigidly forward while 

Cosmo, 



A Tale of Tu scanty. 123 

Eying her sternly, burst forth in his passion : " Your 

lover, Frances©, 
Waits for you there in his closet : why linger so long 

ere you greet him ? 
That is his skull which you drank from, a pleasing love- 
token he sends you : 
Strange that you shrink from him now whom you lately 

preferred to your husband : 
What ? have you nothing to say to the amorous youth 

who adores you ? " 
Slowly Bianca arose and then turning to Cosmo said 

firmly : 
" Never in word or in deed have I sinned 'gainst the 

bond that unites us : 
Him you have slain was no lover of mine. I was 

yours and yours only. 
Happy was I in your love and I foolishly deemed it 

eternal. 
Were I the woman you think, I might readily crave 

your forgiveness ; 
Being the innocent wife that I am, I now leave you 

forever." 
Scarcely the sentence was uttered ere she who had 

spoken fell lifeless. 
Dying heart-broken, and he whose accusings had sud- 
denly killed her. 
Stood there alone, for Sacchetti had vanished, alone 

with Bianca. 



124 A Tale of Tuscany. 

Now when too late he believed in her innocence wholly, 

entirely ; 
Now when too late he perceived the abominable craft 

of Marchesi ; 
Now in his anguish, by furies pursued, he fled into the 

forest. 

Empty the Villa Alberti henceforward, for no one 
would dwell there. 

Gone was its master and no one knew whither for 
many years after, 

Till as it happened a hunter pursuing a deer near 
Carrara, 

Found in a desolate hollow two skeletons lying to- 
gether, 

Locked in a deadly embrace, and by shreds of their 
clothing and jewels. 

Knew them for Cosmo Alberti and crafty Battista 
Marchesi. 



®l)c (^olben Cotus. 



In far Japan this story old 

Is carved in ivory ^ graved in brass. 
For jealous Fame^ who loves the bold, 

Lets not the gracious memory pass. 



TJie Legend of tJie Golden Lotus. 127 



THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN LOTUS. 

The amber sunset faded into night, 

And round the base of lofty Dandoku 

The ever-present shadows in the woods 

CUmg closer to the forest depths, yet rose. 

Still clinging, from the mountain's shaggy knees 

To shining cone of snow that pierced the sky. 

And still and breathless grew the darkened land. 

Slow past the hours till in the east faint lights 

Wavered awhile, then eddied into calm 

And waxed apace, and from their midst, blood-red, 

An angry moon sailed up a cloudless sky. 

And all the peering shadows backward pressed. 

Each upon other, ever clustering thick 

To rearward of each bush and tree. But when 

The blood-red splendor of the moon had paled 

To white, and long and level rays became 

Long rays that sloped from heaven's mid-height, there 

past 
Down Dandoku's steep sides the merciful 
Shaka-ni-yorai, full of holy thoughts. 



128 TJie Legend of the Golden Lotus. 

No sound yet broke the silence, save when now 
And then a stone, dislodged by Shaka's steps, 
Smote sharply 'gainst its neighbor rocks, or bird, 
Half-roused by passing feet, fluttered a wing 
Or chirped a sleepy note. 

No sound save these, 
Till rose from out a jagged mountain cleft 
A mystic voice that rang around the sky 
And trembled to the limits of the world, 
Proclaiming one of Buddha's sacred truths : 
JVot always does the otiiward guise denote 
The co7nplex substanee of the timer soul f 
Lord Shaka, hearing, paused, then nearer drew 
Toward the cleft, and peering downward, saw 
A dragon on whose scales the moombeams shone, 
And in whose eyes there glittered baleful fires. 
No fear beset his soul at this strange sight, 
But all unawed thereat, he by the edge 
Sat down and questioned of the awful shape 
Below, whence came this knowledge of the laws, 
Which years of study had not shown to him. 
" Knowing so much," said Shaka, " thou must needs 
Know more. I wait thy farther word. Say on." 
So saying, Shaka sat with joined palms, 
Patiently waiting, while the dragon coiled 
Its awful glistening length around the cliff, 



The Legend of the Golden Lotus. 129 

And once more shook with thunders all the air, 
As it, regarding Shaka's face serene, 
Declared : All things that live to Buddha are 
Opposed I There followed silence for a space. 
Till Shaka said, " All that is good thou sayest. 
All that is good, and yet I wait for more." 

He ceased, and suddenly a soundless chill 
Crept o'er the mountain side, and one dark cloud. 
Coming from farthest space, enwrapt the moon, 
And in the chill and through the gloom he heard 
The awful voice, clear-sounding : All that live 
Must die ! And like an echo come from far 
And fainter : All that live must die ! 

Thereat 
The listener bowed himself and said : " Thy mouth 
Hast spoken greater wisdom than before. 
O clothed with knowledge, still, I pray, say on ! " 
So spake Lord Shaka, and the shape below 
Turned full on him the lightnings of its eyes, 
And answered : " Lo, the last of these great truths 
Most precious is of all the four, but weak 
Am I, and may not utter it without 
The meat I most desire," and while he spoke 
The moon from out the bosom of the cloud 
Came forth, and showed the dragon loosening 
Its hold upon the rock, and all its length 



130 The Legend of the Golden Lotus. 

Supinely stretching forth. 

Then Shaka said : 
" O thou so full of highest wisdom art 
I can deny thee nothing. Name thy will." 
Whereat the dragon, rearing high his crest, 
Made answer like the roll of thunder heard 
Far off in wake of a retreating storm, 
" Man's flesh." 

All pityingly Lord Shaka gazed 
Upon the dragon, and made answer thus : 
*' The Law forbids us to destroy a life. 
But for the people whom I hope to teach 
The fourth great sentence I must hear for them ; 
Thereafter will I give myself to thee. 
And now, O Wisdom-Bearer, tell me all." 

The dragon heard, and higher raised its head, 
And slowly opening its ponderous jaws. 
Made answer to Lord Shaka : Happiness 
Is greatest when the soul the body leaves ! 

Rapt on these words the saintly hearer stood 
A space, then reverently bowed his head 
And sprang within the dragon's mouth, when lo, 
A wonder ! As Lord Shaka's sacred feet 
Touched lightly on the shining monster's jaws 



The Legend of the Golden Loins. 131 

The crested head sank down and fell apart 
Eight several ways, and into petals eight 
That form the throne most holy briefly past 
And left Lord Shaka seated, calm, serene, 
Within the bosom of the Mystic Flower ! 



Cijrics, etc. 



Why turn the page? Thei-e's nought derleaf 
To hold attent you?- thoughtful niind. 

You will? ^Tis well these lays are brief 
If to disparage y oil' re inclined. 



LYRICS, ETC 



THE SWEET SOUTH-WIND, 

Over the fields and the waters there suddenly swept in 

mid-April 
Something that seemed like a breath that was blown 

from far coasts of the sunlands. 
Languorous was it and sweet as are lilies or odorous 

spices, 
Laden with delicate hints of a summer not far in the 

distance. 
Over the meadows and fields that, embrowned by the 

cold of the winter, 
Lay as if dead to the spring and with never a hope of 

a harvest. 
Silently passed the south-wind, and there suddenly 

sprang into being 
Millions of grass blades that tossed like an emerald sea 

in the sunshine, 
Daffodils fair as were those that gained Pluto a consort 

in Hades, 

US 



136 The Sweet South-Wind. 

Buttercups golden and gleaming like gems on the hands 
of a maiden, 

Daisies that grew near the ground and yet ever and al- 
ways gazed upward, 

Violets azure and yellow and white and of wonderful 
fragrance. 

Over the trees in the orchard and forest it breathed in 

its progress, 
Bringing the sap from the roots to the near and the 

farthermost branches, 
Swelling the buds till the willow was hid in a verdurous 

mist-cloud. 
Touching the boughs of the maple that reddened with 

joy at the meeting. 
Leaving wherever it lingered assurance and promise of 

summer. 
Over the streams the beneficent breeze from the south- 
land swept gently, 
Filled all the waters with quick-darting life that rejoiced 

in the springtime. 
Sent all the rivers, now freed from the grasp of the 

winter, exultant. 
Moving in shimmering, glittering, sinuous curves that 

led seaward. 



The Sweet SoiLth-Wiiid. 137 

So on its way passed the wonderful wakening wind from 
the sunlands, 

Driving before it the frost and the cold of the winter, 
reluctant, 

While in their stead came the warmth and the re- 
aroused life of the springtide, 

For in the wake of the life-giving breeze flew the jubi- 
lant swallows, 

Twittered the robins and wrens, while the azure-hued 
wing of the bluebird 

Cut through the air like the scintillant blade that is 
famed of Toledo. 

Thus in mid-April the heart of another springtide was 

awakened ; 
Faster the blood ran along through the veins in the 

glorious weather, 
Generous impulses quickened and waxed in the glow of 

the season. 
Winter was banished, and with him the cold and the 

afternoon twilight. 
And, as the wail of his storms in the north passed at 

last into silence. 
May could be seen in the distance approaching, her lap 

full of blossoms. 



138 0]i the Labrador Coast, 



ON THE LABRADOR COAST, 

(October, 1885.) 

Down the coast of Labrador 

Rode the storm-wind conqueror: 

In his train the surges roared, 

From black clouds the torrents poured. 

Miles on miles of frowning cliffs 

Marked with Time's strange hieroglyphs 

Felt the waves their bases shock, 

Heard strange cries that seemed to mock 

With their shrill discordant glee 

Sounds of human agony. 

Drifting wildly with the blast 

Scores of vessels southward past. 

Down upon their rain-swept decks 

Leaped the surges with white necks; 

Thundered on their oaken sides 

Angry force of mighty tides. 

And through shrieking rigging tore 

Fiercest gales that fled to shore. 

On to land the vessels sped, 

On to death the storm-wind led, 



On the Labrador Coast. 139 

Miles on miles of blackened cliffs 
Saw the helpless, feeble skiffs 
Swung from schooners' sides and then 
Oared by stout-armed fishermen, 
Shattered, broken at their feet : 
Heard mad waves the dirge repeat 
Of the men who met their doom 
Where the wildest surges boom 
When along stern Labrador 
Rides the storm-wind conqueror ! 



140 What's the Sweetest News in Spring"^ 



WHATS THE SWEETEST NEWS IN SPRING? 

What's the sweetest news in spring 
That the blithesome swallows bring, 
When from southern lands they fly- 
Through our cloudier northern sky 
After frosts and cold succumb ? 
" April 'j- past and May has come / " 

April's past and May has come ! 
One may hear it in the hum 
Of the silly bees that seek 
Honey from the petals meek 
Of the violet and the daisy ; 
See it in the curving, hazy, 
Vaporous line that marks a river 
Winding slow where rushes quiver ; 
Feel it in the thrill that stirs 
All the Maytide's messengers. 

May is come and April's past ! 
Joy of spring is here at last ; 
One may hear it in the note 
Swelling from the bluebird's throat; 



What's the Sweetest N'ezvs in Spjingf 141 

See it in the rosy snow 
Heaped along the orchard row; 
Feel it in the odors stealing 
Forth from lily-banks revealing 
Mid green spears small waxen bells. 
Every sense the message tells 
May is come and April's past ; 
Summer gladness ripens fast. 

April's past and May is come ! 
Greening woods no more are dumb; 
Every tree is vocal now; 
Every winter-twisted bough 
Hides its scars with leaf or flower. 
Now is come the fairest hour 
Held in fee of all the year ; 
Winds breathe low and skies are clear ; 
Neither cold nor heat can smite ; 
All sweet influences unite 
In the Maytide hour to make 
Earth seem sweeter for our sake. 
Who the winter's cold remembers 
Or believes in drear Novembers 
When of joy this is the sum, — 
April's past and May has come ? 
That's the sweetest news in spring 
Which the happy swallows bring. 



142 France sea and Paolo, 



FRANCESCA AfID PAOLO, 

In that dim-lighted land where bide 

The spirits who have sinned below, 
One newly come saw by her glide, 

In silence mournfully and slow, 
That other who upon her turned 

Sad eyes that ahvay swam in tears, 
And moved dry lips that constant burned 

With kisses never through the years 
Of dateless aeons to be kissed. 

Forever doomed the one to see 
Her loved Paolo near, and list 

In vain for loving words ; to be 
Forever witness of his pain, 

And look and long for aye to ease 
The anguish of his heart. Sad twain ! 

What lovers' torments like to these ? 



Where are the Fi^es of Pan ? 143 



WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN? 

In these prosaic days 

Of politics and trade, 
When seldom Fancy lays 

Her touch on man or maid, 

The sounds are fled that strayed 
Along sweet streams that ran ; 

Of song the world's afraid ; 
Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 

Within the busy maze 

Wherein our feet are stayed, 
There roam no gleesome fays 

Like those which once repaid 

His sight who first essayed 
The stream of song to span, 

Those spirits all are laid. 
Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 



144 Whe7'e are the Pipes of Pan ? 

Dry now the poet's bays ; 

Of song-robes disarrayed 
He hears not now the praise 

Which erst those won who played 

On pipes of rushes made, 
Before dull days began 

And love of song decayed. 
Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 

E7ivoy. 
Prince, all our pleasures fade ; 

Vain all the toils of man ; 
And Fancy cries dismayed, 

" Where are the Pipes of Pan ? " 



Song. 145 



If you love me, come and be 
In my heart of hearts and see 
How I think of naught but thee ! 

If you hate me, tell me so, 

I should love you still, I know, — 

Hate to love will sometimes grow. 

If you neither love nor hate, 
For your grace I ne'er will wait ; 
You will never be my fate ! 



146 To a Ftieiid who Delays to Write. 



TO A FRIEND WHO DELAYS TO WRITE, 

Springtime goes, 
Comes the rose, — 
Ne'er a letter yet ! 



Summer's reign 
O'er again, — 

Still he doth forget ! 



Autumn fast 
Slideth past, — 

Can he mean to let 

Winter drear 
End the year, — 

End, and still forget ? 



A Valentine, 147 



A VALENTINE, 

There is a little maid 

Of whom I'm much afraid. 

Shall I confess it ? 
She wears a sealskin coat ; 
Its grace and shape I note 

And needs must bless it. 

She wears a little bonnet : 
A bird that's perched upon it 

To fly seems ready. 
My heart, not over-bold, 
When her I do behold. 

Goes quite unsteady. 

She has a little muff 

In which, from breezes rough, 

Her hands find shelter. 
My wits, when her I see 
Clad all so daintily. 

Fly helter-skelter. 



148 A Valentine. 

Who is this little maid 
Of whom I'm so afraid ? 

Dare I reveal it? 
This little maid is she 
Whose eyes these verses see ; 

I can't conceal it. 

But if she should divine 
I'd be her valentine, 

As here I sing it, 
I'll dare to hope she may 
Be surely mine some day. 

Sweet skies, soon bring it. 



MidsiLinmer Passes. 149 



MIDSUMMER PASSES, 

With faltering step the sweet Midsummer paused 

Upon the last stair of the worn July. 

Behind her blushed the roses and before 

The scarlet poppies shimmered in the corn. 

From far-off woods a heated breath came past, 

Blown from dark cedars and tall groves of pine, 

Yet all its sweetness might not serve to soothe 

The bitterness of fair Midsummer's pain, 

Who felt her sceptre slipping from her grasp 

And saw one coming with his heated brows 

Girt round with wheatstraws, bold young August brown. 



150 Friendship Raised His Placid Mask. 



FAIR FRIENDSHIP RAISED HS PLACID 
MASK. 

Fair Friendship raised his placid mask and showed 
Beneath, not brows where cahn Content should reign, 

Nor smiles wherein all-perfect Joy abode, 

But Discord's face, distort with many a pain ! 



An Easter Grief. 151 



Al^ EASTER GRIEF, 



The Easter brightness fades away ; 

A chill has numbed the bursting leaf ; 
A shadow falls across the day 

And in our hearts is bitter grief. 



152 Unto Late Aiitimintide, 



UNTO LATE AUTUMNTIDE. 

With lurid torch October fired the woods ; 
Brief grew the days, and long and chill the nights ; 
The birds flew southward and their songs made glad 
No more the hours. Then changed the maple's gold 
To russet brown. November's step was heard 
Along the leafstrewn ways, and, blown by winds 
And drenched by autumn rains, October fled 
Before her down the path where summer v/ent : 
So waned the year to later autumntide. 



Wi^/i a Prayer-Book. 153 



WITH A PRAYER-BOOK. 

In Common Prayer our hearts ascend 
To that white throne where angels bend. 
Now grant, O Lord, that those who call 
Themselves by Thy dear name may all 
Show forth Thy praise in lives that tend 

To noble purpose, lofty end, 
And unto us thy blessing lend 
As low upon our knees we fall 

In Common Prayer. 

In this dear Book past ages blend 
Their voice with ours ; we do commend 
Our souls, in doubt and sin held thrall, 
To His fond care, and cot and hall 
Alike to him petitions send 

In Common Prayer. 



154 ^^^ Truro Sands. 



ON TRURO SANDS, 

TO W. M. F. 

On Truro sands we walked, dear friend, 
Slow following up that low shore's trend. 
The crescent moon dipt in the sea, 
Soft darkness fell on you and me 
As on we wandered past the bend 

That marked the fishing hamlet's end. 
And felt the breeze against us spend 
Its gentle force. Ah, sweet to be 

On Truro sands ! 

Some Presence did our steps attend 

And to that hour a blessing lend, 
So one in heart, my friend, were we, 
And set from selfish fancies free. 

How dull were life, that hour unkenned. 

On Truro sands ! 



Beaten, 155 



BEATEN, 

Where is the spirit of striving that once was so strong 

in my heart ? 
And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps 

at the start ? 
I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a 

doubt, 
Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds 

were about, 
Always believed in hard fighting, and never once 

trusted to luck, 
Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow 

that I struck. 

What is the guerdon of labor, of honesty what the 

reward ? 
Only a pittance at most, and simplicity conquered by 

fraud. 
Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a 

sneer? 
Why should we look to the future expecting the skies 

to be clear ? 



156 Beaten. 

Always the strongest are prospered : why may it not be 

so again, 
If there's a heaven hereafter reserved for the children 

of men ? 
Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so 

beyond ? 
I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but 

despond. 
Never for me will the prospect be brightened again 

by a hope ; 
I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil 

to cope. 

Beaten am I in the struggle, the doom of the conquered 

is mine ; 
Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may 

not divine. 
Now I await the dread moment when I shall have done 

with it all. 
When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my 

face to the wall. 



0oitnct0. 



How oft the sonnefs fourteen lines 
Fail to convey the bardling's thought : 

The poet in that space ensh?^i7ies 
Some theme with 77iighty meaning fraught. 



SONNETS. 



RECONCILIATION. 

As one who, wandering in a weary land 

Alone, where thorns and briers beset the way. 
And clouds and darkness have o'ercome the day, 

Suddenly feels from out the dark a hand 

In his, and hears a voice of mild command 
At which the clouds disperse, the sunshine gay 
Returns, and all within his heart is May 

As forth he goes unto some happy strand, — 

So I, in darkness groping, hear your voice 
Again, and feel your hand in mine, 

(For what is distance to true hearts that love ?) 
And all my darkness ends, for at the sign 
Of your forgiveness I once more rejoice 

And feel sweet Peace descending like a dove. 
159 



l6o Indifference. 



INDIFFERENCE. 

What is indifference, do you ask of me ? 

O well I know the meaning of the phrase. 

It is to find grey ash instead of blaze 
That warmed you once ; to lose, alas ! the key 
Which turned in friendship's wards ; to sometime see 

The eyes that shone for you in other days 

Now coldly meet your own in passing gaze ; 
To know that what has been no more shall be. 

It is to find that you in naught believe, 

To know that youth has fled far down the past, 

To feel that hope will ne'er again be born, 
And love is but a poor worn cheat at last. 
It is all this, yet not for this to grieve^ — 

To live^ and heed not that one lives forlorn ! 



Easter 'Friday. 1 6 1 



EASTER-FRIDAY, 1883. 

[In memory of J. T. F,, who entered into rest on Friday in Easter-Week, 1882.] 

O YEAR gone down into the sullen past, 

Relentless year that hast no tidings brought 
Of him who suddenly from earth was caught 

And lifted higher while our tears fell fast ; 

Thou canst not triumph over us at last, 

Because thy silence so with grief is fraught 
That joy is weighted with a mournful thought 

When at this Easter eyes are backward cast ; 

For, past all doubting, well each heart doth know, 
Howe'er it fare with us whose heavy load 

Each moment lends its petty might to swell, 
With him no longer sorrow makes abode, 
But peace and rest abide, and never go ; 
And with his noble soul it now is well ! 



1 62 To James Rtissell Lowell, 



TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

What rarer, finer bliss than his who feels, 

While happy friends and neighbors press his hands, 
The warmth of handclasps given in other lands 

Still left upon his palms ? Though o'er him steals 

The rapture of home-coming, on its heels 
Follows the joy of holding in the bands 
Of memory all the hours whose golden sands 

Were run with friends remote whom space conceals. 

Such bliss is thine, O poet, coming back 
After long absence from thy native shores : 

For, while all England saddens with farewells, 
Thine own dear land, expectant, opens doors 
Of welcome wide for thee on homeward track, 
And every voice the heartfelt greeting swells. 



To One Who Has Stiff e red Mueh. 163 



TO ONE WHO HAS SUFFERED MUCH, 

I KNOW, dear friend, your hours are drear and cold ; 

I know your path is harsh with briers and flints ; 

Yet in the darkest day come happy ghnts 
Of distant brightness underneath the fold 
Of blackest cloud, and ever to the bold 

The roughest road will show the faintest prints 

Of weary feet. Look up ! When morning tints 
Are in the sky the night grows pale and old. 

The longest lane a sad world hath will turn 
At last, and, round the turning, mayhap, waits 
Some joy to greet you that shall fill your life 
With bliss past all belief. Not always stern 
The future, nearer seen. Sometimes the Fates 
Do smile, and Peace comes aurely after strife. 



164 To Modjeska as Rosalind. 



TO MODJESKA AS ROSALIND. 

When from the poet's brain fair Arden's glades 
Were peopled with the lightsome folk we know, 
A shade of discontent was seen to grow 

Upon his brow, as he through long decades 

In vision saw this loveliest of his maids 
By beardless boys enacted, and her show 
Of maiden grace obscured and hidden so 

In guise of youths half-won from boyish trades. 

Soon changed the vision, and through centuries far 
A group of women fair he then did see. 

Whose hearts, one after other, were beguiled 
By some Orlando's youth and bravery. 
And in the throng, and radiant as a star. 

On thee, the mighty Master, looking, smiled ! 



To Modjeska as Julia of Verona. 165 



TO MODJESKA AS JULIA OF VERONA. 

The tender maid of old Verona's town, 

Whom Proteus loved and yet could lightly leave 
When sight of Silvia did his soul bereave 

Of friendship's dues and honor's fair renown, 

(More faithless he than many an untaught clown,) 
Has waited long for one who should conceive 
Her gentle nature best, and thus inweave 

All maiden graces in the woman's crown. 

Not until now has the interpreter 

Appeared. No other eyes than ours have seen 
Verona's constant Julia as she seemed. 
To thee was given the skill to plead in her 
The cause of hapless maids with fervor keen. 
Before of Julia we had merely dreamed ! 



1 66 High -Water Mark. 



HIGH -WATER MARK. 

One glorious day gleams through my memory still, 

Though lagging years have come and gone erewhile ; 

That day whereon I seemed to reconcile 
My aspirations with myself, to thrill 
With noblest ardor and to feel no chill 

Of low-born aim nor motive, nor the vile 

Persuasions of my baser self beguile 
My soul from resolution pure to ill. 

My soul may never mount so high again, 
And never may my sluggish spirit glow 
With feeling free as then from all alloy : 
But yet should this be bitter truth, the pain 
Is deadened when within my heart I know 
That I rose o?ice and burned with highest joy ! 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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